A Way Out of Neverland
by CurrerJaneBell
Summary: Peter Pan's story has taken a strange twist. Suddenly, the boy who was never supposed to grow up has become taller, stronger. No one in Neverland can explain what has happened to him. And so Peter seeks out the one person who might know what is going on, the one girl he has never truly gotten over. Wendy Darling.
1. Changes

"All children, except one, grow up."

~J.M. Barrie

Peter sighed. The episodes were happening more frequently now. The last one hadn't been more than three days ago. This one was worse. It had started in his palms, like always. A subtle itch had started beneath his knuckles, then spread to his wrists. Slowly, the prickling sensation had begun to feel like needles. It crept up his inner arms, into his shoulders, and soon had taken root in every inch of his flesh. He could barely move, each twitch of his muscles sending a more intense wave of pain throughout his body.

He wondered if this was what growing up was supposed to feel like.

Canons sounded in the distance. For a brief moment, they gave him pause. It was strange, what sent thrills of anxiety coursing through his blood these days. There had been a time when the sound of canon fire would have delighted him. It would have meant that an adventure was waiting for him in the distance, should he have chosen to seek it out. Back then, danger had been another word for possibility.

That version of himself wouldn't even recognize him now, this lesser being who was curled up on a tree branch, biting down on the inside of his cheeks so that he wouldn't cry out in agony each time he flinched. He was supposed to be the leader—fearless, by definition. And yet the prospect of anyone seeing him like this terrified Peter.

Voices emerged through the tree branches from below. Peter held his breath, knowing that the smallest sound could give him away. As the boys passed directly under the tree, Peter could discern the conversation. It was Slightly and Tootles. By the sound of it, they were arguing, an occurrence not uncommon to them.

"Have you ever thought about it?" Slightly asked.

"Of course not."

"Really?"

"Why would I?" Tootles asked. "We're at home here. It's the only place we've ever known."

"It's not the only place _I've _ever known," Slightly replied, somewhat haughtily.

"Even if you do remember your old life, this is your life _now_. I mean, can you imagine ever being able to sword fight in London? And you'd never see any more mermaids, or pirates, or Indians—"

"But they have other things in London, haven't they?" Slightly asked. Then, more quietly, "Wendy's there."

Tootles paused at that. "You know we're not supposed to mention her," he said.

"Peter isn't here to listen."

"Well, _I _don't like to mention her. She left us. What more is there to say?"

"We grow older every day, Tootles. Eventually, we'll be too long of tooth to sword fight. We'll have grey hairs...and pipes, and...and children!"

"I don't think that's how it works," Tootles drawled.

"How do you know?"

Another silence followed. "Anyway, what's with all this talk of leaving? Yesterday you hated the idea that we must get older."

"It suddenly struck me that we must get jobs one day."

"How did you come to that realization?" Tootles asked.

"Well I was thinking about Wendy—"

"Again!"

"—and I remembered that she told us about the grown-ups in her world. They all have jobs, and tell stories to their children, and go to parties. They say things like 'poppycock' and 'dash it all, Nana!' And, well, I want to do those things."

"You can do those things here, mostly."

"I mean I _really _want to do them. I want to be a grown-up, I think."

Peter nearly gasped. It wasn't from pain, though that hadn't subsided yet. But the shock of hearing someone say such a thing out loud in Neverland…. Well, it was almost like hearing someone in London say that he wanted to be a murderer or a burglar or something equally as despicable.

He needn't have feared, though. Tootle's own reaction would have covered up any noise that Peter would have made.

"You _what_?" he cried.

"A grown-up. You know. Tall and important, someone who thinks serious thoughts and has hushed conversations with their wives. It all seems very mysterious. Quite like an adventure, really."

"We have adventures here!" Tootles shouted.

"Yes, but haven't you grown tired of them? Our adventures are all the same, after all. We fight the pirates and we win. We fight the Indians and they win, then we win, then they win again, on and on until you forget what you've been fighting about all along. It becomes rather tiresome after such a long time of doing it."

"I don't know what's gotten into you, but if Peter were to hear you now, he'd kick you out of Neverland before you could blink twice. And you know Peter. Once he kicks you out, you can never come back."

"He didn't kick her out, she left."

"And he hasn't once been back to visit her, you know. Even if she's wanted to come back since that day, she hasn't seen him."

"What are you saying?"

"Just that we've tried to leave before, when she asked us to go with her. If you couldn't go through with it then, what makes you think you'll be able to do it now?"

"I was terrified of it all then. That day, when we were in her house with her mother, it all seemed so very marvelous. But when Peter said what would happen—that they'd force us to become men—I realized that I wasn't a man. I was a boy. And I thought I'd be one forever."

"And now you're not?"

"Well, I don't know. Certainly I won't be one for much longer."

"What I'm saying is, Slightly, that Peter will be unlikely to let you come back twice. He let us follow him back to Neverland that day. If you decide to leave him now—as a man _or _a boy—you'll never come back. Are you certain you'd like that?"

For the first time, it was Slightly who was silent. The boys continued to pass, and their footsteps became further and further away, though Peter could still hear them arguing even as they reached the shoreline.

Their conversation caused him to think back on that night, the one that Wendy had left. All of the Lost Boys had wanted to go with her at the time, for she'd encouraged them to come and see London. They, after all, would grow up one day. Wendy knew as well as Peter that they couldn't stay in Neverland forever. She'd wanted to show them what life could be like in a place like London, where growing up was considered a good thing.

In the end, only the twins had stayed. They were too young at the time to realize how horrible it would be if they grew up. They liked Wendy and her mother, and they especially liked Nana. But when Peter had declared that he would return to Neverland, Nibs, Curly, Slightly, and Tootles had all accompanied him back to the island. And they'd agreed never to mention Wendy again.

Peter had been thinking a lot about her lately, though. He wondered what she'd say to him now, if she were to see him this way. She'd always been such a comforting presence on the island. She was the only person with whom he had felt…defenseless. He could never quite manage to appear brave before her. Perhaps it was because she had always seemed to know so much—much more than he. Any appearance of heroism had seemed false in her company.

And yet she'd been the most helpless of any of them. It hadn't been because she wasn't brave. He'd known she was brave. The very fact that she'd come to Neverland at all was a testament to that. It was one of the things that he'd liked most about her. But she had been unused to this world. It must have been so foreign to her, and she'd had no earthly idea how to navigate the territory. It didn't take long to realize that she didn't belong here, in his world.

Peter flinched. He couldn't tell if it was from the bitterness of the memory or the fresh ripple of barbs that pulsed across his skin. But this one was more muted. He could feel the pain subsiding. He looked down at his body, and studied himself for a moment. It was barely noticeable, but he could tell that he'd grown longer in the past few minutes. His legs were becoming ganglier, his torso taller. Even his hands were changing, his fingers pulling forwards more and his palms growing larger. Each time an episode struck, it would conclude in a similar fashion.

And every time, fear would thicken his blood.

He didn't know how to stop this process, or how to tell anyone that it was happening. The Lost Boys never seemed to experience anything like this. He figured he'd know if any of them were undergoing frequent, torturous growing spells. Besides, when they grew, it was more subtle. He couldn't see their progress on a day-to-day basis, as he was beginning to do with himself. For a while, they'd appeared a good bit older than he. Now, however, it seemed that he was beginning to catch up.

He was sure they'd noticed. The sidelong looks they'd angled towards him, the whispered remarks they'd made to each other every time he emerged from the forest after an episode…of course they'd noticed. But he couldn't say anything. He didn't _know _anything. How could he offer them answers if he didn't have any himself? And he couldn't risk them doubting him. In Neverland, doubt could get you killed.

The funny thing was, the only person he could really consider talking to about this was Wendy. If anyone might know something, it would be her. But Tootles was right. Peter hadn't visited her in years, ever since he'd left her in her nursery. He'd promised to come by every spring to check in. But the idea of seeing her, possibly happier there than she'd been with him…well, if she was, he didn't want to know about it. And so he'd stayed away.

He swung down from the tree branch, the last of the prickling sensations lingering in his palms and in the soles of his feet. He shook his limbs, trying to fling them loose, and then went to find the boys. If Slightly really was thinking of leaving, he'd have to have a talk with him.

* * *

"That's the third canon tonight," Nibs said, looking up from his supper. "It's closer, too."

"Hook's itching for a fight, Peter," added Curly. "He hasn't had a good spar with you in weeks."

"Let him come," Peter said with courage he didn't feel.

Slightly looked at Peter from the corner of his eye. Peter froze, feeling the weight of the boy's gaze. It wasn't the first time Slightly had glanced at him oddly since he'd come out of the forest tonight. Usually, their curiosity was better concealed. Peter wondered just how dramatically he'd changed this time.

Tinkerbelle was at his shoulder then, whispering in his ear.

_It's your voice_, she said, using that language which only Peter could understand. _You sound different to them now. _

His voice? Peter hadn't noticed the change. He cleared his throat, testing her theory. Perhaps it _was _a bit lower…but surely they couldn't have caught onto that, could they?

_You'll have to tell them sooner or later_, she went on. He swatted her away, once again annoyed that Tinkerbelle knew so much about him. She had seen him on that tree branch, he realized now. She'd seen him nearly every time he'd had an episode. That he couldn't keep anything private around her irritated Peter.

"Peter?"

His attention snapped once again to the boys gathered around the fire. "Yes?"

"What do you think?" Nibs asked.

"Of what?"

Slightly's eyes slid over to Tootles, who worked very hard to keep his gaze upon Peter. Curly didn't seem to notice much of anything, still intent upon his supper.

"Should we bring the fight to him? Head him off, so he doesn't come onto shore?"

"You remember last time," Slightly said, referring to Hook's encounter with the fairies. He'd wiped most of them out, leaving only precious few alive. Tink had been with Peter at the time, looking for Hook, or else Peter felt fairly certain she would have been the first of Hook's victims.

"I—" Peter said, uncertain of how to respond. He didn't want to fight Hook, not now. Now while he was so unsure of what would happen with his own body. The last thing he wanted to do was freeze up and leave his boys vulnerable. But if he refused, they'd know something was wrong. He'd never backed down from a fight before.

To the left, there was a rustle of leaves. The boys leapt to their feet, braced for battle in a moment's notice. But in another instant, the bright orange tip of a feather poked through the branches, followed by the blue headband to which it was attached. Tiger Lily stepped from behind the trees, and paused as she saw the boys' stances.

"It's alright," Peter said, though the boys had already begun to sit.

Tiger Lily's shoulders relaxed, and she stepped into their circle. Sitting down besides Peter, she asked, "Did you hear it?"

Peter nodded. "Nibs wants to head him off before he comes ashore," he replied. He felt an uncomfortable stirring sensation at her proximity. It was foreign, this feeling. He'd never experienced it before around anyone. The closest thing he could compare it to was the brief connection he'd felt to Wendy. But this was…different.

"Father says he's but a day away," she said, and for a second Peter wondered if she could feel it too, for her cheeks flushed. It may have only been the fire, though. "He's prepared the tribe."

"We can handle him," Nibs said.

"Always do," Curly joined in, finally putting his plate aside. "You go on and tell dear old dad that he can sleep easy tonight. We've got everything under control."

Tiger Lily frowned. "Perhaps it would be easier on you if you'd allow us to _help_ occasionally."

"It's no trouble," Curly said, regarding Tiger Lily intensely. Peter could tell that he was purposefully provoking the girl, though he didn't know why. "You would probably just get in the way."

"Do you know how many battles we have won?" Tiger Lily snapped, her voice growing shrill. "My people were fighting wars before you were even born."

"That old, huh?" Curly asked. "Do seniors really have a right to call themselves warriors anymore?"

"My father could skin you alive," Tiger Lily shot back.

"He could certainly try," Curly shrugged.

Tiger Lily began to quake, her knuckles whitening as she grasped the log she was sitting on.

"Alright, Curly," Peter said, intervening. "Why don't you go to the beach and see if you can spot Hook's ship?"

Curly blinked, as though being woken from a trance. With a scowl, he left, mumbling about having been interrupted. Tiger Lily stopped shaking after a while, and turned her large, brown eyes upon Peter.

"He didn't mean any of it," Peter apologized, feeling as though he should say something. "You know how we are when Hook is around."

"_You _are never like that," she said. The other boys looked down at their feet, suddenly interested in the ground. Peter sensed that she was implying something, and that they'd all understood exactly what that was. For his part, he was lost.

"I—uh…"

Tiger Lily sighed. "I was sent here to ask if you'd like our help tomorrow," she said, rescuing him from the awkward moment.

"Oh," Peter said. Realizing that he'd only make her upset now if he refused, he nodded. "Sure, that'd be fine."

"Alright, I'll tell my father," she said, standing to go. She looked back down at him, and drew a breath as though to speak. She held it for a moment, apparently undecided about what she wanted to say. "Peter?"

"Yes?"

She glanced down his figure, then back up to his face, and confusion tainted her lovely, petite features. "You seem…different," she said. "Are you alright?"

Peter cleared his throat. "I'm fine," he said, once again conscious of his voice. "See you tomorrow."

Once she'd gone, Peter glanced around the circle. The boys were staring at him again, and he guessed that they were considering what Tiger Lily had asked. He knew that, if he stayed a moment longer, they'd broach the subject again, considering she'd been the first to question the recent changes in him. As Peter wasn't feeling up to discussing the matter, he excused himself, and went to sleep.

As he was drifting off into unconsciousness, anxiety twisted in his gut. He didn't know how much longer he could put the conversation off. And he didn't know what would happen when the time finally came to have it. As he always did when he was nervous, he closed his eyes. It didn't take long for her face to appear.


	2. Leaving Neverland

"Second star to the right, and straight on 'til morning."

~J.M. Barrie

The sound of a canon woke Peter up the next morning. Slightly, asleep beside Peter, bolted upright, disoriented. Once he'd recognized the noise for what it was, he rubbed his eyes.

"You'd think the miserable old sod would simply die already. Then maybe we could have some peace."

Peter stood and began waking the other boys, remembering that the Piccaninny Tribe would be around soon. He thought back to the time when they had believed Hook to be dead, in the brief space of time after Wendy left. The crocodile had appeared to have swallowed him whole, leaving not even a whisker from Hook's beard behind.

It wasn't until weeks later that they realized the part that Hook's right hand, Smee, had played in engineering Hook's escape. Mr. Smee was nothing if not loyal, and the thought of Hook's death must have petrified the old Irishman. It shouldn't have come as such a surprise, then, when Peter learned that Smee had long ago wired the crocodile's jaws shut, knowing the craving the animal had carried for Hook. In the end, it came out that Hook had simply swum ashore, and had awaited his crew to pick him up. This, of course, was after he had killed that crocodile once and for all.

If Hook hadn't died that time, Peter doubted he ever would.

Drums sounded from outside. The boys filtered out from the hollowed tree they called home, to find the Piccaninny tribesmen gathered together in the clearing, adorned with ornamental animal skins and battle paint. They looked a fearsome sight, especially once Curly emerged.

"Peter Pan," the Chief said, his voice as formal and cold as ever.

"Chief," Peter replied.

Tiger Lily regarded Peter solemnly from beneath her mask of blue and orange paint. Peter wondered if going into battle had always been such a serious affair for the Piccaninny. Had he simply never noticed their grey moods before on account of how lighthearted he usually was during such an occasion?

For whatever reason, today seemed to be darker than usual. Melancholy hung on the air like a stench. The boys could feel it to, for they shifted uncomfortably beside Peter, waiting for whatever would come next.

"We'll go out to sea to meet Hook," Peter said, his voice carrying across the small space. "If we can get him to turn back on his course, then we will be able to avoid unnecessary bloodshed."

The Chief nodded.

"We're not—" Slightly began, but cut himself off when Nibs nudged him.

"We're not what?" Peter asked.

"We're not going to try to kill him?" Slightly asked.

"Killing Hook is not the most important thing today," Peter said. His voice faltered, though, and he knew that he sounded false. The truth was, killing Hook _was _the most important thing. It always had been. But it would also be a long and drawn-out business. Peter didn't know if he could last that long.

"We will go first," the Chief said. "We will take canoes."

"We'll fly out to the ship once you're close enough," Peter said. "If we go aboard first, they will be surprised when you board after we do."

The Chief nodded, and then the tribesmen followed him as he journeyed toward the shore.

"Peter," Slightly said, then cleared his throat. "Are you…are you alright?"

Peter paused. He'd known the question was coming for weeks. Still, it took him off guard.

"Fine," he replied briskly.

"It's just—well, some of the lads and I—"

"You don't seem quite yourself, Peter," Nibs said.

"And you look funny," Curly added. "Different than you used to, anyways."

Tootles kicked a rock, his head lowered.

The air sparked in the stillness that followed. It was as though someone had lit a match to the end of a stick of dynamite, and they all knew that something was coming.

"Since when do you not want to kill Hook?" Tootles asked quietly.

Peter drew a deep breath, preparing to…what? Explain everything? In the past, that had always been his role. He was the one with all the answers. He'd have known exactly which words to use in a situation like this one. But now, all that gathered in that breath was silence.

Fortunately, he was saved from himself. The hoot of an owl sounded in the distance, which might have seemed strange to someone who hadn't been expecting it. All the boys glanced out to sea, and saw that the Chief was signaling them to take flight. The tribe was in position.

"Later," Peter said, the word a promise. The boys didn't have a chance to protest; they all knew that there was a more important matter at hand now.

As if on cue, Tinkerbelle flew overhead, sprinkling dust across the air as she went. The boys lifted instantly, and though they were still caught in the uncomfortable throes of uncertainty, they turned their attention out to sea, and flew to meet an old enemy.

* * *

"Nibs!" he cried, turning to see his old friend fall beneath the blade of a bearded rogue even as another sword rushed towards his own face. Peter blocked Hook's progress with his own weapon, the two instruments clashing against one another, caught between the two men in a suspended stalemate.

Peter looked once again towards Nibs, and felt his stomach sink when he saw that the boy wasn't moving. He didn't have long, though, before Hook withdrew his sword. The sudden absence of pressure caused Peter to lurch forward, tripping over his own feet as he fell to his knees. Hook stood over him, his face framed by the noontime sun.

Peter had never seen Hook look so…old. There were scraggly streaks of grey in his usually jet-black beard. His paunch had grown a few inches, his face had adopted an ashen hue. But the look in his eyes—that look of hatred and vengeful craving and bitter animosity—that remained unchanged. In fact, now that Hook had the upper hand, it was intensified.

"Peter," Hook scolded, shaking his head. "After all these years, this is the end of your story?"  
Peter shot a quick glance to his left, and found the jib sheet had gone slack with the lack of attention the pirates were paying to the boat.

"I _am_ disappointed," Hook said. "You wouldn't have thought I would be, but I am. I'll miss these little soirees."

Peter's sword had fallen from his hands during his tumble, but it was within inches of his reach.

"Ah, well. All good things must end." And with that, Hook raised his own sword, taking enjoyment in the moment as he cut through the air.

But the moment came to a swift end when, in a flurry of motion, Peter jerked to the right, retrieved the sword, and almost simultaneously rolled back to the left, cutting the jib sheet in two. The huge sail deflated, billowing down dramatically like an oversized stage curtain. Peter shot up into the air and flew out from beneath the sheet, just as it crashed into Hook. Hook, blanketed by the sail and knocked off balance by the sudden impact, fell to the floor.

Peter drew immediately towards Nibs. The boy hadn't moved. When he approached, Peter looked for the blood, wondering how badly his friend had been injured. But there was nothing to suggest that he had been hurt; in fact, as the seconds ticked by, Peter saw Nibs' chest rise and fall steadily.

"Nibs?" he whispered.

Nibs opened an eye. Catching sight of Peter, he grinned weakly. Peter surmised that the boy had simply had the wind knocked out of him.

"Stay down," Peter said. "It'll be safer for you if you pretend to be injured."

He rose to his feet, and looked at the chaos that surrounded him. The echoes of metal crashing against itself pervaded the entire scene. A few tribesmen had remained in the canoes, and were launching arrows into the backs of pirates when they got a clean shot. Others were on board, some slain, others caught in hand-to-hand combat against the pirates they'd managed to disarm. But the boys….

For the first time, Peter was baffled by the fact that the boys seemed to take so much pleasure in the act of fighting. He, who had once been leader of the merriment, stood in awe of them now. They soared above the pirates, pulling hair and kicking backsides, laughing as they contributed to the confusion. Peter, meanwhile, could not ward off the devastating wave of sadness that he felt, looking at the dead that were scattered across the deck. What was happening to him?

"_Peter Pan!_"

The bellow had come from behind him. Hook stood atop the high deck, panting heavily, scanning the crowd for the boy.

It all happened within a fraction of a second. Before Peter could react, Tiger Lily had jumped atop the high deck, a borrowed sword in her hand. Peter's eyes widened, as he knew full well that the princess did not know the first thing about using a sword. Still, with a bravery that seemed to define her whole character, Tiger Lily made a faltering attempt to plunge the sword into her target. And that was when Hook, anticipating her movement, grabbed her by the braid and yanked her backwards, so that her back was pressed into his chest. He manipulated her wrist so that his hand covered hers, both of them pressing the sword against her throat.

"No!" Peter shouted, flying quickly toward them.

"Not so fast, Peter," Hook said, pressing the sword more firmly into her copper flesh. Peter saw the first drop of blood appear at her neck.

"Let her go," Peter said, suspended in midair, his palms held up in a gesture of complaisance.

Below, the sound seemed to grow quieter. Peter looked down, and saw that everyone had frozen. The tribesmen had gone pale at the sight of their princess. The lost boys' jaws were agape at the sight of Peter complying to Hook's will. And the pirates were grinning greedily, the taste of victory having already touched their senses.

"Smee," Hook said. The henchman appeared almost instantly. Peter saw that he had been cowering behind a wooden pole. "Please restrain our flying friend."

Peter swallowed, then inched through the air, towards the quivering sidekick. A gasp rang out, a collective reaction from the boys. "No," Peter said, knowing without so much as a glance backward that they would try to intervene.

Once he landed, Smee tied him to the wooden pole with shaky hands, binding his wrists with rough rope. "Tightly, Smee," Hook said. "We wouldn't want him to escape. Again."

"Peter," Tiger Lily breathed, the drop of blood at her neck falling down to her collar bone. Hook pressed the sword in further, causing a tiny stream of the red liquid to follow in the same path.

"It's alright," Peter said back. To Hook, he repeated, "Let her go."

Hook turned his head back to the princess, burying his nose in her hair. With a deep inhale, Hook grinned. He sighed, and said, "Very well."

He threw her down to the lower decks. Then, with a lascivious chuckle, he once again faced Peter.

"I would like all to bear witness," Hook projected, his eyes still firmly locked on Peter's. "This shall be the death of Peter Pan. No more tricks." He took another step forward. "No more mischief." And another. "No more little boys, parading around, so assured of their own importance." Hook drew his sword back up. "This is the end, Pan."

But Peter had another plan in mind. Even as Hook had been giving his speech, Tinkerbelle had been unfastening the ropes binding Peter's wrists. Now, as Hook's blade ushered down towards him, Peter ducked the impact, diving for the deck. Hook's sword caught in the wood.

A cheer erupted from the boys and the tribesmen, and the pirates all rushed towards Hook. "No!" Hook said. "He is mine."

With a grunt, Hook pulled his sword from the pole. Peter braced to finish the battle, knowing now that he could. There was nothing to distract him now. He'd defeated Hook many times before—a confidence began to bloom inside of him that he could do it one final time. Perhaps he would kill the scoundrel today after all.

It was then that the pinpricks began to tingle in his palm. Peter felt his heart constrict. _No_, he thought, his pulse quickening. _Not yet. Not now_.

Hook sank his sword toward Peter once. Peter rolled aside, picking up the weapon that Tiger Lily had dropped. Hook sank his sword toward Peter twice. Peter launched out from beneath its range, shooting up into the air, trying to ignore the paralyzing sensation overtaking his arms. Lifting the sword felt like a struggle now.

Hook sank his sword toward Peter a third time, and this time the end of the blade just barely grazed his shoulder. He hissed, though the wound wasn't deep. The pain came from the quickly escalating agony that had already spread through his shoulders. It felt like he was being stabbed repeatedly; Hook's brush of the sword had barely made any sort of impact in comparison.

Peter kicked the sword from Hook's hands, and it clattered to the floor noisily. Peter was hurting, true, but he knew that he still had the advantage. Hook was old, and he was out of breath, and it would only be a matter of seconds now before Peter would plunge his sword through the pirate's heart. He shoved Hook to the ground, then landed at his feet. Hook lay sprawled out, defenseless, and terrified.

"You were wrong," Peter said. "Today is the end of Captain Hook."

With a mighty struggle, Peter raised the sword in his shaking arms. He cried out in the effort. The pain was like fire now, coursing through his veins. It took all of his breath, all of his strength to lift that sword. And then he'd done it, and it was high enough to kill Hook, and all he had to do was drop it….

But then a new kind of pain intruded upon his consciousness, stemming from his ribs. He looked down, and saw a mighty gash had been carved between his bones. Blood was flowing freely now, running down his body in a river. He heard a flurry of cries in the background, but he couldn't focus on that. Looking up, he saw that Smee was still holding the sword, standing on unbalanced knees, his face white as the sails above. Peter wondered briefly why he hadn't counted on Smee, too loyal to ever watch Hook die. And then the world began to spin.

He dropped the sword, and heard Hook shout. Peter staggered backwards.

"_Retreat!_" called the Chief.

"Peter!" called Slightly.

_Fly away_, Tinkerbelle said, her quiet voice frantic. _Fly away now, and you'll live_.

The scene was fading fast, all of the colors of the world beginning to swirl together with the blackness of his unconscious mind. Vaguely, Peter felt himself lift into the air, and fly back in the direction of the island.

_No_, Tinkerbelle screamed into his ear. _You mustn't return to Neverland. They'll find you there. They know you're injured_.

"Wh—where then, Tink?" Peter said, blinking rapidly.

_Wendy, _she replied, though her voice now seemed little more than a whisper. _You must find Wendy_.

And so Peter Pan, with his last ounce of strength, steered himself towards the horizon and flew into the night sky, in search of the one person who had ever truly wounded him. She was his last hope—the one person who might be able to heal him.


	3. Wendy

"There could not have been a lovelier sight; but there was none to see it except a little boy who was staring in at the window. He had ecstasies innumerable that other children can never know; but he was looking through the window at the one joy from which he must be for ever barred."

~J.M. Barrie

London hadn't changed much in the years since he'd last seen it. Everything moved at the same, hurried pace. Everyone spoke in the same loud voices. The scenery was awash in the same grey tints. So it wasn't hard to find the same windowsill that he'd perched on so many times all those years ago.

Peter landed outside of Wendy's window with a soft _thud_. He'd faded in and out of consciousness on his journey to this world, getting lost a few times amongst the stars. Luckily, he'd bumped into the Big Ben before he'd gotten too close to the streets, and no one had seen him hurry off in the direction of Wendy's flat.

He took a few moments to settle himself, his breath slowly returning to him. Every inhale stung his side, and he looked down to see his hand was smeared with red from having clutched the wound. It was still bleeding, though not as freely now. He pressed his hand back against it, thankful that the episode had subsided, at least.

He looked through Wendy's window, not knowing what to expect. He knew how time tended to change people. Would she look the same? Would he recognize her?

Worse—would she remember him?

The one thing that Peter had not anticipated was the fact that Wendy might have moved. This terrible thought occurred to him only after he saw a little boy—he wasn't sure how old, precisely, for he had never needed to be a judge of age—run into the room and slam the door. Then, apparently thinking twice about that gesture, the boy winced. He ran into a little door at the far end of the room and closed this one softly behind him, and then did not reappear for quite a while.

Peter felt the last glimmer of hope in his mind begin to fade. This was no longer Wendy's room. He knew that people in this world frequently changed residences. It was a practice he'd found odd the last time he'd been here. No one in Neverland ever moved. There was no need to. The boys lived in the Hangman's tree, as they had done for as long as Peter could remember. The fairies lived in their circle. The Piccanniny lived in their village. The mermaids lived in the water. Everyone had their place, and this had seemed so very logical and foundational to Peter that he'd never questioned it.

But what if Wendy really had moved? She was only one girl, and London was so very large…. It was possible that he'd never find her now.

"Binks!"

Peter's head snapped up. That voice….

A girl chased into the room then, flinging the door open with a grand flourish. She paused, seeing that the room was empty, and a subtle frown encroached upon her lovely face. It carved a little dent on her forehead, right between her eyebrows.

_Wendy_.

It was something that he'd always noticed when she'd frowned. Though she had changed a great deal , that one trait betrayed her identity.

Peter didn't know if it was gratitude that she still lived here that he felt now, or if it was merely the fact that she might hold the answers he so desperately needed. But it was suddenly as though a strong cable was strung up between them, tightening, causing him to need to be nearer to her. He had to stop himself from diving through the window that very moment.

He knew, though, that she was not the only person in the room. The boy in the closet was not one of her brothers—Michael and John would be older than that little boy. Peter did not know a lot about time, but he knew that if the years had changed Wendy this much, then Michael and Peter would appear older, as well.

Still, his wound throbbed, and he felt his pulse in his ears. He knew that if Wendy could only _see _him, she would take care of him. And then he would be alright. Wendy always made things alright.

"Binks?" she asked. A shuffling sound came from the closet, and Wendy snorted. "You little rascal," she scolded, though she didn't walk toward the door.

Another noise came from the closet. Wendy paused at the foot of the bed.

"Let's see," she called, her voice growing slightly louder. "Could he be…under the bed?" And then, even though she must have known that the boy couldn't see her, Wendy ducked down to peek beneath the bedframe.

A whispered giggle erupted from behind the door.

"No. Could he be…behind the desk?" She sashed across the room, then scraped the chair across the ground.

The giggle grew louder.

"I don't see him," Wendy said pensively. "Hmm…could he be behind the curtain?" She walked toward the window, and Peter's heart stopped. She _had _changed. As she neared him, he could see it. Her face was longer now, more defined. She had lost some of the softness in the features that had marked her as a child. Now…

Now she was no longer simply pretty, as she had been. While she had always been remarkable—differently than Tinkerbelle and Tiger Lily, for hers was a kind of beauty that was simple, pure…like sunlight—now the very act of looking at her caused Peter's breath to hitch. Her honey brown hair had grown darker. She wore it down to the middle of her back, still tied in that soft blue ribbon that she'd loved as a child. Her eyes had a knowing sparkle to them now, and while they didn't bespeak the same innocence they'd held when she was young, they were captivating in their depths. It was like those blue pools stored all of her secrets. His gaze lingered there, caught in their mystery.

She was bewitching.

And so he didn't notice that she had come too close. That she was now merely inches away, separated only by a thin layer of glass and a few breaths of empty air. That she was pulling back the white lace curtain….

She gasped when her eyes connected with his. All he could think in that moment was, _Finally_. It felt like a thousand years had passed since she'd looked at him. He didn't realize quite how much he had missed this feeling until that very moment. The feeling of being the only thing in the world that she was looking at.

"_Peter_," she breathed, and it was a sigh of relief.

They stayed like that for a moment. He sat on her windowsill, transfixed. She stood at the window, hesitant even to move. Time seemed to slow, to liquefy and swirl around them, as though it had changed into another substance completely and was now utterly in their power. Peter wondered about that in a vague, distant part of his mind.

A child cleared his throat loudly. Wendy jolted out of her trance, glancing behind her. Then she hurriedly looked back at Peter, as though she were afraid that he'd have disappeared. His chest began to throb again, and he hissed, looking down.

Wendy's eyes followed his, and she cried out. Pulling the window open, she helped him in. "What happened?" she asked, her speech quaking.

Peter allowed her to lead him to the bed. The soft pillows felt good beneath his head as he stretched out, and he had to ward of sleep as it threatened to capture him again.

The closet door creaked open, and the little boy was suddenly at the foot of the bed.

"Oh, Binks," Wendy said, seeming to realize that he was still there. "Don't look, sweetheart. Go back downstairs, alright? Go find Duke and play. Everything's alright."

The boy, Binks, only continued to stare wide-eyed at Peter. "Is it him?" Binks asked, his voice small. "Is it really him?"

"Oh," Wendy said, surprised. Her face paled. "I'd almost forgotten…."

Binks rounded the bed, nearing Peter. Peter watched the boy, uncertain. Apparently there was something that he wasn't understanding about this moment.

"Peter?" Binks asked.

Peter looked at the boy. At this proximity, there was something strangely familiar about his face….

"Peter, you remember," Wendy said gently, her eyes welling up. "This is Binks. He is…_was…_one of the boys."

Suddenly, the pieces snapped together in Peter's mind. He hadn't recognized the twin without his brother, especially considering that the last time he'd seen the pair of them they'd been toddlers. But the person before him wasn't a baby anymore.

"H-how old are you?" Peter asked. His stutter must have reminded Wendy that he was injured, for she suddenly disappeared from the room.

"Seven," Binks said. "I was three the last time you saw me."

"Seven," Peter repeated. The numbers didn't seem that far apart. Three things, after all, weren't very many fewer than seven things. And yet the four years which separated these numbers had done a great deal. "W-where is…your brother?" Peter asked, wincing as the throbbing intensified.

"Duke is downstairs," Wendy said, reappearing. With her, she had brought a small bowl of water and a stack of washcloths. "Here, Binks," she said, handing the bowl to the child. "Would you hold that for a moment?"

Binks took the bowl obediently. Wendy turned to Peter, and thought for a moment. "Peter," she said finally. "I'm going to lift your side, just a bit, to put this cloth beneath you. Do you think you can manage?"

Peter nodded, though he bit his lip to keep from crying out when she moved him. Wendy took the bowl from Binks, and placed it on her lap as she sat beside Peter. "Binks, run along now. You can talk with Peter later."

Binks hesitated, but finally nodded. It wasn't until he was gone that Wendy lifted Peter's shirt to reveal the wound. She gasped, though she tried to hide it.

"'S not as bad as it looks," Peter said, attempting a grin.

"Peter Pan," Wendy said, the edges of her voice laced with scorn. "What have you done to yourself?"

"Nothing!" he protested. "Why do you think it was my fault?"

"Isn't it always?" she asked, arching a brow at him. She was gentle, though, when she dipped a washcloth into the bowl and lightly pressed it against the gash. "You and your merry band of men, running off to fight the Indians, or the pirates, or the fairies—"

"We don't fight fairies, Wendy," he chuckled. Somehow, just being in her company made it easier to breathe.

"—without regard for your own safety. It's the most foolish thing I've ever seen. And that Tinkerbelle! She's the one who encouraged you on, I'll bet. She and her pixie dust, I swear—"

"Tink's the one who sent me to you, though," Peter said. That caused Wendy to pause.

"Really?"

Peter nodded. Wendy continued to dab lightly at his bloodied side, occasionally rinsing the cloth. "It's been a long time since you've been there. To Neverland."

Wendy only nodded. Peter felt shame for the first time over the fact that he had not been back to visit. Before, he'd always justified his behavior with the knowledge that she'd been the one who had chosen to leave. He'd masked his guilt with anger.

Now, though, with her acting so tenderly towards him, he realized that he had been wrong, too.

The feeling did not sit well with him. Changing the subject, Peter nodded toward the door. "He seems to have a knack for doing what you say," he said. "It seems like he worships you."

Wendy gave a small smile. "He's part of the family," she said quietly. "He's become a brother to me, and to John and Michael. Ever since that night…." she faded off, concentrating again on her work.

"The night I left you here," Peter finished for her.

She nodded again.

"The night that you would not come back with me," he added.

She glanced up sharply. "That is not all that happened," she said, her voice icy.

"You left us," he said, his voice just as harsh. "You left Neverland behind and said you weren't going to come back."

"I was _thirteen_," she hissed. "I missed my parents! And you promised you'd come see me!"

"If you'd really wanted to see me, you'd have stayed," he reasoned.

"That can't honestly be what you thought."

"Well it was," he objected. "It was what we all thought."

"You can be such a fool, Peter Pan."

"You were one of us, Wendy. We welcomed you into our home. We gave you everything you wanted—"

She snorted softly. "Not _everything_."

"—and then you changed your mind."

"Neverland was always _your _home, Peter. It wasn't mine. I missed my room. I missed my mother. I missed Nana. And then you left me here, and you promised you'd return every year. And you didn't. So then I missed…."

Peter's ears perked up. "What?" he whispered. "What did you miss?"

She shook her head. "You, Peter. I missed you."

A silent moment stretched between them. Peter felt his heart begin to race. A strange, heady combination of hope and happiness ballooned in his chest.

"You did?" He sounded so weak, even to himself.

"Of _course_," she said, rolling her eyes. "What did you think, that you'd fly off and I'd simply forget about you? You were my best friend."

"You were mine," Peter admitted.

Wendy swallowed, then dabbed a few more times. She returned the cloth to the bowl and reached for a roll of gauze. "I think you'll live," she declared. "It's deep, but I don't think you'll need stitches. Was this Hook's handiwork?"

Peter snorted. "_Handi_work?"

Wendy laughed, not realizing her own joke.

"Smee's actually," he said, patting the gauze lightly. Wendy wrinkled her nose.

"Smee did this to you?" she asked.

Peter's stomach sank. "Why?"

Fighting off a tiny grin, she stood and picked up the bowl. "You must be losing your touch, Pan," she said as she walked towards the door. "The real Peter wouldn't let Smee anywhere near him."

Peter chuckled, and now the wound only twinged slightly.

When Wendy returned, she shut the door behind her, then sat with him once more. Something seemed to be on her mind, for she wouldn't lift her eyes to meet his now.

"Peter, I don't know…."

"What?" he asked.

"I don't know how to ask you this without sounding rude," she said. "But...have you…that is, you seem to have…."

"Wendy?" he asked, never having known her to be so halting in her speech.

She raised her gaze. "You're…different," she said finally. "You don't look like you did the last time I saw you."

Peter drew a breath, but found himself at a loss for words once more. Wendy sensed his hesitation, for she hurried on.

"It's not bad," she hastened to add. "In fact, you look more…grown up. In a good way. It's just that I didn't think you _could_. Grow up, I mean. I didn't think it was...possible."

Peter swallowed. Good? How could growing up possibly be good?

"Wendy, are you a grown up now?" he asked.

Wendy looked taken aback, and then let out an enormous laugh. "No!" she said, seeming tickled at the thought. Peter didn't know why, but this relieved him somewhat. "Peter, you should have seen the look on your face. You were horrified!" She fought to catch her breath between gasps of laughter.

"But you seem so changed," he reasoned.

"Well, I am _older_," she said, growing calm again. "But I'm not a grown up, silly. I'm seventeen."

"That's not grown up?" he asked. She certainly did not look like a child anymore.

"Well, I suppose it…it might be. To some people. But I've come to realize that being an adult is more of a state of mind, I suppose. Luckily for me, I haven't become the sort of person I always thought an adult needed to be, in order to deserve the title. So, I guess, to answer your question….No. I'm not grown up. Not until I choose to be."

Her logic confused him, but the last part was clear. She wasn't grown up yet. She was still his Wendy for now. He felt warmed by the thought.

"Peter?" Wendy asked.

Peter met her eyes again, sensing that something had changed in the past few moments. She seemed uncomfortable again.

"I don't mean to seem…. Well, it's just that, obviously you can't fly back to Neverland tonight. And I was thinking."

Peter nodded, wondering what she was getting at.

She drew a breath, and asked, "Would you like to stay here tonight?"


	4. Across the Stars

"Just always be waiting for me."

~J.M. Barrie

"My parents are out," she continued, a blush creeping through her cheeks. "But I don't think Mother would mind. She remembers you almost as well as Binks and Duke do. And…that is, if you _want_—"

"I do," he assured her, mostly to put her mind at ease. Of course he would stay there. He hadn't realized that it was even a question. And he didn't understand why she was so embarrassed to ask. They had slept beside each other before.

She nodded. "Alright. I'll make up a bed in John and Michael's room."

_John and Michael's room_? "Wendy, what's the matter?" Peter asked, noticing that her skin was still flushed.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"You're acting…odd," he said.

"Nothing," she said, shaking her head and looking down at her hands. After a moment, she said softly, "I'm really glad you're here. I was beginning to think I'd imagined you."

He placed his hand over hers. When their skin touched, he felt a spark light between them. It was different than the prickling sensations that he so dreaded lately; it felt nice. Sort of like fairy dust.

"I was so angry with you," she admitted. "Every year that passed, when you didn't come back….I kept hoping to see you there, at the window. I kept waiting. A part of me eventually realized that you wouldn't come back, that too much time had passed, and that you might have…." She bit her lip, still refusing to look at him.

"Might have what?" he asked. To tell the truth, a part of him wished she would stop. Her words stung him. He didn't realize that all this time—all those years that he'd been thinking of her and hating her and missing her, and needing her so badly that something inside of him had never stopped aching—she was here, feeling the same way. But he understood that she needed to say this in order to feel better. So he also wished that she would go on.

Finally, she glanced up at him, and he was once again lost. "That you might have found another little girl, one who would stay with you."

Peter's jaw dropped. "That's what you thought?" he whispered, feeling the air rush from his lungs.

She lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, but he saw the insecurity in her expression. Was it possible that she didn't know how much he had cared for her all that time ago? Could she really think she was replaceable?

"I didn't know," he said. "Wendy, I swear it, I had no idea that you felt that way. You must know—you _have _to know, there was never another girl. It was only ever you."

"But then why?" she asked. He could hear the quiver in her voice. "Why would you stay away so long? Could you really have hated me so much?"

"I did hate you," he said, feeling shame wash through him again. "I hated you for leaving. I hated that you wanted more—that you wanted this world. Because I knew that I didn't belong here, and so it felt like you had chosen this place over me."

"I chose _both_," she said. "I chose you, too."

He shook his head. "I guess I could never picture a place better than Neverland," he said. "And then, when you left, Neverland wasn't complete. Nothing was the same without you. After that, I realized that the only place better than where _I _was, was wherever you were. But by then it was too late. I—I was angry with you, too."

They were still for a moment, their confessions hanging between them like a curtain, separating them as each reflected on what the other had said. It was a revelation for both children, so unalike and from such different worlds, to realize such a thing: that somewhere, on the opposite side of the stars, there had always been someone feeling exactly the same way.

Wendy turned her hand over, and slowly interlaced her fingers with his. And then the curtain fell away, and they were two halves of the same once again.

* * *

Peter hadn't the energy to stay awake very much longer after that. He'd waited until Wendy had made a bed for him on the reclining loveseat in John and Michael's room, but he was already half-asleep by the time he thanked her.

Whispers drifted into his dreams the next morning, pulling him back into reality.

"_D'you think he'll remember us_?"

"_Of course he'll remember us_," came a confident, hushed reply.

A dreamy sigh followed, then, "_What kind of adventures d'you think he's had lately?"_

_ "I'm sure they're all marvelous_," was the response.

"_Yeah. 'Member last time? The pirates were so big, and they were ugly, and really terrible._"

"_He didn't have any problems with them, though._"

The first boy was silent. _"We hardly have any stories like those. What if he finds us boring this go-round?"_

"_I'm sure he won't,_" the second replied, though his confidence wavered.

"_Will he let us fly again?_"

"_Depends_."

"_Oh_." A moment passed. "_On what?_"

"_On if he brought any fairy dust with him, obviously_."

The first boy gasped. "_D'you think he brought Tinkerbelle with?"_

"I had to leave her at home, unfortunately."

Both boys started when Peter spoke. He cracked an eye open, and found them both sprawled out on their bellies across one of the twin beds, their chins propped up on their palms as they watched him sleep.

"Peter!" the smaller one cried, scrambling to his feet. He was about Binks's size, and if Peter didn't recognize him right away due to the wavy, blond hair and the eager glint in his eye, he might have thought this boy to be Duke.

Peter grinned. "Hello, Michael," he said, sitting up. "Tinkberbelle sends her regards. She had to stay in Neverland and look after the place while I'm away."

"Oh," Michael said, his face falling somewhat. Peter thought a moment.

"But she made me promise to tell you that she thinks of you often, and that she has never seen a little boy take to flying as quickly as you did."

The child's whole face lit up. "Really?"

"Sure," Peter said. "Well, aside from me, of course."

Michael laughed, and sat back, seeming content. Peter shifted his attention to the other boy. The round wire-rimmed glasses and the messy mop of dark hair hadn't changed a bit since Peter had seen John last. He was taller now, though, and lankier. It was as though he'd been put through a taffy puller—he was all stretched out and long-limbed.

"I wouldn't have recognized you without the glasses, John," Peter said. John readjusted the glasses on his nose. "You must be taller than your sister now."

"Two inches, in fact," John said, puffing out his chest slightly.

Peter whistled low, and shook his head. "I remember when you only came up to my shoulders. Now you're probably a head above me."

John looked at him oddly. "I doubt it," he said. Peter frowned.

"Why's that?"

Michael and John exchanged a silent glance, and Peter once again got the feeling that he was missing something. Peter looked around the room, and caught sight of a mirror on top of the dresser. He stood, and walked over, stretching out his arms as he did. Lately he'd felt so sore in the mornings.

When he glimpsed movement in the mirror, he halted. At first, he didn't recognize himself. In Neverland, they didn't have mirrors. He'd see himself occasionally in the reflections on the sea's surface, and had a fuzzy idea of what he looked like. But he'd never worried about his appearance.

The person he saw in the mirror gave him cause to worry. He no longer resembled the boy he'd been in those reflections. His jaw was thicker now, jutting out so that it was more pronounced. On the skin there was a course coating of…what? It was scratchy when he ran his fingers across it, like a rough plank of wood. The color of the stubble matched the copper shocks of hair on his head, but it couldn't be hair. He'd never had hair there before. In fact, the only men whom he'd ever seen with whiskers like this were pirates. He'd always thought it was a sign of bad character to have hair on one's chin.

His chest was broader, too, and curls of hair peeked out above his collar. His shoulders, which had been the most pained by the episodes, had become knotted and dense. The bulges extended down his upper arms. His hands, he saw, were large and strange-looking. They were rougher now, somehow. He flexed his fingers, and saw that the motion caused his forearms to bunch.

John was right. He _was _taller. Taller than Wendy, certainly, and easily taller than John. It was odd, to tower this high above the ground. Everything suddenly gained a new perspective.

Had that last episode done all this to him? Certainly it had lasted longer than all of the others; but still, he hadn't been expecting…_this_.

He turned to face John and Michael again. "I…."

A knock sounded at the door, and all three boys turned. Wendy peeked her head through, and Peter felt the anxiety which had tensed in his stomach loosen.

"Oh, good," she said, rounding the door. "I thought I heard voices. Peter, someone has been itching to say hello to you all morning."

Before she could even finish the sentence, a replica of Binks, differing only in the fact that his belly was a bit rounder than his brother's, bounded into the room.

"Peter!" he cried, flinging himself across Peter's legs without a moment's hesitation. "It's no fair. Binks got to see you last night, and I had to wait _forever_!"

Peter chuckled, though his mind was still racing over what he'd seen in the mirror. Surely if he was growing at this rate, then it wouldn't be long before….

No. He wouldn't think of that now.

"It's Duke now, I hear," Peter said. He wiggled free of the boy's grasp and crouched down, so that they were eye-to-eye. "Tell me, do you and your brother still finish one another's sentences?"

Wendy giggled. Duke seemed confused.

"Oh, they stopped doing that _ages _ago," John said. "It was driving Father batty."

Duke grinned at Peter. Leaning in closer, he whispered conspiratorially, "Most everything drives Father batty." He narrowed his eyes, though his smile stayed in place.

Peter didn't miss the fact that Duke called Mr. Darling _Father_. For some reason, this caused a lump to form in his throat.

"Peter, tell us of your adventures!" Michael interjected. "Wendy said that you were injured. Did you finally kill Hook?"

Peter glanced up at Wendy. She raised an eyebrow at him, daring him to tell them what had really happened. He smirked, and, purely for the joy of shocking her, he replied, "You bet I did!"

Several gasps and amazed noises echoed from the clan of boys, which now included Binks, who had sidled into the room behind his older sister. Wendy's eyes rolled Heavenward, and she shook her head.

"How'd you do it?"

"What happened after that?"

"Did the other pirates leave?"

"What did the other boys say?"

"Was the battle very bloody?"

Peter laughed, feeling like himself for once. Being here, like this, it reminded him of being back home in Neverland, when the boys were still young and he was still the fearless leader.

"Of course it was bloody," he said. "All the best battles are."

"Tell us about it, Peter!" Michael implored.

"Yes, Peter," Wendy drawled. "Do tell."

"You know what?" Peter asked, returning to the chair and sitting down. "I think I will."

The boys gathered around him, seated at his feet. Wendy remained at her post, her arms folded, pretending to be cross as he launched into a long tale about a battle between the Lost Boys and Hook's crew. To hear him tell it, the battle had lasted two weeks aboard Hook's ship. At one point, a hurricane had hit, and they'd needed to take the battle below deck so that they wouldn't get swallowed up and drown. As Peter continued, becoming more and more animated, even leaping up onto the chair and reenacting a particularly gruesome part of the battle, Wendy began to enjoy herself. She laughed aloud at his impressions of Smee, and found herself riveted when, near the end of the story, Peter described the part where Hook had almost gotten the better of him. But in the end, Peter had won, and Hook was dead once and for all. Wendy had become so wrapped up in the story that, when it ended, she found that she'd forgotten it wasn't real. And so she was surprisingly disappointed when she realized that it had been, after all, only a story.

"Peter," Duke asked, "do you think _we _might have helped to kill Hook?"

"Oh, no doubt," Peter said easily. "In fact, had you been there, I don't think I would have even gotten a go at the old bugger."

Binks snickered.

"No way," Michael protested. "They're only seven. They're too young!"

"You're only eight," John reminded him.

"Oh, but don't you remember?" Peter asked. "In Neverland, you're never too young for an adventure. Only too old."

Michael frowned. "Peter, would _I _be too old for an adventure now?"

The question caught Peter off guard. "Of course not," he answered. "Not as long as you are still a child."

"But then how have you had so many adventures?" Michael continued. "You're practically an adult."

In the course of his story, Peter had nearly forgotten his fear. Suddenly he felt the blood drain from his face, and his heart begin to beat more quickly. The image of himself reappeared in his mind. Wendy must have seen something in his expression, for suddenly she tipped her head to the side and asked, "Is that Mother calling us for breakfast?"

The boys seemed to forget about adventures and age-restrictions in that instant, for they all bolted for the door.

She came and sat at the foot of the twin bed. Peter sank to sit in the chair once again.

"What is it?" she asked.

He felt himself shiver. "Wendy," he said. Just saying her name offered him strength. "You said last night that I look different."

She nodded, her expression serious.

"Do you think—" He paused.

"What, Peter?"

"It's all happening so fast now," he said, "and I don't know how to stop it."

"Stop what? What's going on?"

He looked up at her. "Wendy," he mouthed again. "Do you think I'm dying?"


	5. Once, Long Ago

"Boy, why are you crying?"

~J.M. Barrie

"_Dying_?" she cried, her eyes widening. "Peter, how could you possibly be dying?"

"Well, after all, isn't that what aging does to a person?" Peter asked.

Wendy floundered for a second, utterly lost by the course of the conversation. "I suppose…yes, eventually. But Peter, that doesn't happen until one is very old."

"I _feel_ old," Peter said, then shook his head. "But I still feel young. I still feel like me…but something has changed. I don't know how to explain it."

"Start at the beginning," Wendy demanded.

Peter caught the resolute look in her eye, and was charmed in spite of himself. This was a version of Wendy that he recognized—headstrong, forceful, and determined to fix everything. When she had been in Neverland, she had bossed the boys around like a mother. All the while, she'd had the very same glint in her gaze.

"Peter?"

"Right," he said, clearing his throat. "It started…oh, I can't say. Probably about a month ago. At first it was subtle. A few tingles along my spine every once in a while, a couple shocks of pain to the legs in the middle of the night. It was barely noticeable, really, though it was strange. I'd never felt these things before. Then the pain became more frequent. It got to the point where I would have an episode every two or three days, each time the sensations more intense than the last. I didn't realize the effect they were having on me until I began to feel the full force of the episodes. Then it started to show, bit by bit. And now…."

"Now?" she prompted.

"Look at me, Wendy. You said it yourself—I'm different. I don't know…if these episodes continue, and I keep getting older, I don't know how much longer I'll—"

"Don't," she said. Peter paused, taken by surprise at her outburst. She shook her head. "Don't say that. We'll figure something out, everything will be alright."

"How?"

She opened her mouth to speak, then paused. After a moment, she drew a short breath, and said, "Peter, you said this happened only a month ago?"

"It started happening a month ago."

"So, all this time, you've looked exactly the same way that you did when I last saw you."

"Yes," he said, wondering why her tone had taken such a note of suspicion. "Wendy, what is it?"

"Exactly a month ago," she said again, as though to make sure.

"I—well, yes. Why?"

A long moment passed, and then another. Peter felt that time must have adopted a sluggish quality in the seconds which elapsed before Wendy spoke again. "I don't know if you'll want to hear it," she murmured.

For some reason, he thought she sounded scared.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because it has to do with… Peter, do you remember the first night we met?"

The memory flooded through him like liquid warmth. It was a night he recalled often, usually when he was falling asleep, surrounded by friends but plagued by an aching sense of loneliness. It was one of the only things which soothed that ache.

"You told me I had a short name and a funny address," he said with half a grin.

"You do," she shot back, the words out there in the open before she could contain them. He chuckled.

"Says the girl with twelve names," he replied.

"Four. And the last one is my family name, so it doesn't really count," she reasoned.

"Alright," he conceded, though he did so with a slight raise of the eyebrow which hinted that he didn't quite agree.

Her lips twitched, but her eyes remained serious. "That night," she pushed on, "you told me something of your past. You said that you ran away from home the day you were born. Do you remember?"

He nodded.

"You said that you went to Kensington Gardens, to live with the fairies, before you went to Neverland."

"Yes. That's where I met Tinkerbelle," he said. "I was making a trip back there when I first spotted you in the nursery, telling stories to Michael and John."

She drew a breath, then stood. Without another word, she left the room, and Peter sat there wondering what was going on. She was acting as though she had done something wrong, which seemed next to impossible to Peter. After all, they hadn't seen each other in years.

And what did Kensington Gardens have to do with anything? He hadn't been there since he'd left Wendy.

When she came back, Wendy had a piece of paper in her hand. It was small, and bore uneven edges as though it had been cut by hand. When she came nearer, he saw that it was yellowed with age, and had a fold across the center. She stood next to the bed, holding the paper close to her body.

"Peter, when I got back…. There comes a point after you lose someone, when they begin to seem unreal. I had trouble remembering what you looked like. I forgot what you sounded like. The dreams I had of you were all that I had left, and they were getting fewer and further between. For a time, I became a bit obsessed with finding you again, any piece of you, that would make you seem real again."

The concept was strange to Peter. He'd never for a moment forgotten what Wendy had looked like. The way she smelled—of floral and linen—was forever perfuming his thoughts of her. Her stories had sounded time and again in his mind, her voice narrating them with all its gentle dips and whispers. But he supposed he understood that things must be different in this world, where things were constantly changing. In a place that moved so quickly, it must be hard to keep track of the way things were. In Neverland, things always stayed the same.

"Alright," he said, encouraging her.

She sat down on the bed then, and held out the paper to him. He took it, and saw that there was a large image of an infant in a basket that was placed on a park bench.

"I was online, looking for the equivalent of a needle in a haystack. There's not a lot about boys named Peter who chase pirates and fly with fairies. But I found mention of an article in the paper nearly a decade before. The article was about a baby who had been abandoned in Kensington Gardens one spring night. A journalist was the first to find the baby, and took a picture in anticipation of the article he would right. Then he walked across the street to use the payphone. He left the baby on the park bench because he didn't want to tamper with anything, in case the police could find information about where it had come from. But when he got back to the bench, the baby was gone. All that was left was his basket, and a sprinkling of fine dust across the blanket. I went to the library, and dug through the archives until I found the paper. This is the article," she said.

Peter quickly scanned the small print. It did indeed tell of a small boy, but the boy was not described. And there was nothing that suggested that the child was in fact Peter.

"Wendy, this could have been anyone," he said.

"Yes, that was my thought. But the name Peter was sewn into the blanket. That's what led me to the article in the first place," Wendy explained.

"There are millions of little boys named Peter, surely," he suggested.

"True. But Peter, look at the picture," she said.

He looked again. The black and white image was grainy and dark, and it obviously hadn't been taken by a professional photographer. The angle was all wrong. The camera had been too close to the baby at the time, showing only the basket, the blanket, and the boy, with no context besides the planks of wood suggesting a bench.

"There," Wendy said, pointing to a faint, white smudge. "Do you see it?"

"See what?"

"That's her, Peter," Wendy said. "That's Tink."

Peter had to take an extra moment to process what she was suggesting. He squinted, but at best it was a white circle, just as likely to be the result of an error developing the picture as anything else. "Maybe," he said, not wanting to dismiss her outright.

"No, it is," she said. "Maybe you can't tell, because you're used to seeing her the way you know she looks—up close. But I remember the first time that I saw her, this was exactly how she looked. It's a perfectly round orb of light. I'm telling you, that's her. That's you."

Peter looked once more at the picture. "Even if it is me," he said, still not entirely sure it was, "what does this have to do with anything?"

"Look at the date," Wendy said. "The paper came out on the twenty-first of May, 1994. That's exactly eighteen years and one month ago. If your timing is right, you began growing on your eighteenth birthday."

"So?"

"So it's an awfully big coincidence, don't you agree?"

"What is?"

"Peter, in England, the eighteenth birthday marks the end of childhood. It is when a person is officially an adult. I think it's strange, is all. The day you stopped being a boy was the day you became a man."

"I'm not a man," Peter snapped. His anger had come from nowhere. He hadn't even realized he was upset until he'd spoken.

"You don't _want _to be a man," she said.

"That doesn't mean anything."

"Of course it does. Peter, you've always been this way. You're terrified of growing up. And now that you are, you're so petrified that the first conclusion you reach is that you're dying."

"Well?"

"Well… You don't find it at all curious?"

Peter glanced down at the article, then put it on the bed. He stood up and paced to the door, then back, then to the door again. Turning to Wendy, he said, "So, what? Just because I _may _have reached some magical age, all of a sudden I shoot up three feet and grow body hair? It doesn't make sense. Time has never affected me before. Why should it now?"

"I—I don't know," Wendy admitted.

Peter shook his head. "This is mad."

"There must be a reason," Wendy said under her breath, thinking aloud. She looked up at him. "Have you done anything strange recently? Does something happen that…triggers the episodes?"

"No."

"Peter—"

"No, Wendy, no. Nothing happens."

"Alright. Well, what were you doing the first time you noticed this?"

"The first time the tingles started?"

"Yes."

"I was…." He thought for a moment. "I was stewing."

"Stewing?"

"Tinkerbelle and I were having a fight. I was on Marooner's Rock, upset, feeling more than a little sorry for myself. And that was when I felt it. A soft prickle in my back."

"And it got worse after that," Wendy clarified.

"Yes."

She paused a moment, then tipped her head. "What were you and Tinkerbelle fighting about?"

"Why?"

She raised a shoulder in half a shrug. "You said you were fighting. Call it curiosity."

"I don't remember," he lied.

"Yes you do."

"No, I don't."

"Peter, you have a tell when you lie, you know."

"A tell?"

"Yes. When you lie, you always do the same thing. It gives you away."

"What do I do?" he asked, startled.

"I'm not telling you. If I told you, you'd stop doing it. And then how would I know?"

"Wendy, you haven't seen me in four years. You would have no way of knowing."

"Well, am I right?" she asked. "Are you lying?"

He was going to deny it. But he suddenly felt guilty about lying to her. It was a strange sensation—he'd stretched the truth dozens of times. But looking at her now, he was struck again by how lovely she was, and he found himself saying, "We were fighting about you."

"Me?" she asked, obviously surprised. "Whatever for?"

"Tinkerbelle was upset. She had been getting angrier at me as the years passed, when I wouldn't stop thinking of you. She always knew when I was thinking of you. I haven't the foggiest idea how." He grinned ruefully. "Perhaps there was a tell."

"You were thinking of me?" she asked, her voice gentle.

"Yes."

"But why? After all those years, why?"

He took a moment to phrase his thoughts. He didn't know quite how to express it—it was like giving a name to a sensation that was incomparable to any other.

"Because after you, there was nothing else," he tried. "After you, everything changed."


	6. The Darlings

"She also said she would give him a kiss if he liked,

but Peter did not know what she meant,

and he held out his hand expectantly."

~J.M. Barrie

Before Wendy could reply, a voice echoed from the hallway.

"Wendy, dear!"

"Yes?" Wendy called back automatically.

"Breakfast is ready."

Wendy glanced towards Peter. "That's Mother," she explained, though Peter had figured as much. "Are you hungry?"

"Does she know I'm here?" Peter asked.

"Of course she does. I told her when she and Father returned last night. I think she was every bit as excited as the boys were. You know how she adores you."

Peter smirked. "The last time I spoke to her, she told me that I couldn't keep you in Neverland. I always assumed she found me greedy."

"She finds you charming," Wendy laughed. "She always wished you'd come back."

"Oh," Peter said, feeling a surge of warmth.

"Shall we go?" Wendy asked, standing again.

Peter stood as well, and followed as Wendy led him down the stairs. The scene which greeted them stood in marked contrast to the tranquil bedroom. Wendy's mother stood at the stove in pale blue jeans and a ruffled blouse, sliding the spatula beneath pancakes on the griddle. Meanwhile, a short distance away, everyone else sat at the small, circular kitchen table. Michael forked a pancake from John's plate, eliciting an angry shout from his brother, while Binks stood to reach across Michael's plate for the pitcher of orange juice. Duke was waiting for his breakfast, playing a percussion solo on the edge of the table with his knife and fork, singing along to some fast-paced song that Peter didn't recognize. Mr. Darling sat in the middle of it all, his face buried in his newspaper, wearing a stern expression. And all the while, everyone seemed to speak at once, to no one in particular, about a whole host of thoughts that had nothing to do with his neighbor's.

It was as though Peter was back in Neverland, sharing a meal with the boys.

"There you are, Peter," Mrs. Darling said, turning from the stove with a platter of pancakes. "I heard you might be around this morning."

"Mother, Peter may be staying for a while," Wendy said, taking a seat at the table. She glanced toward Peter, and tipped her head towards an empty seat next to her. He joined her at the table, soon swallowed up by the ruckus surrounding him.

"That's wonderful," Mrs. Darling said, setting the plate in the middle of the table. It hadn't been free from her hold for two seconds before Duke speared one of the over-sized cakes with his fork. Mrs. Darling placed a hand on Peter's shoulder, gazing at him with smiling eyes. "You're welcome to stay on the couch."

"Thank you," Peter murmured.

Mrs. Darling turned and went back to the stove. Peter soon saw why—when he turned his attention back to the plate she'd just placed before them, it was empty. He glanced up and saw Binks swallow the last one whole.

"Peter, what shall you do today?" John asked, his mouth full.

"Well, I don't know," Peter said. "Are there any adventures to be had in London?"

"Oh, lots!" John exclaimed, his face brightening.

"Yes?" Peter asked.

John made as if to reply, and then seemed to get stuck. "Well, there's…." He trailed off, then looked around at the others.

Michael pursed his lips in thought. Binks and Duke traded glances. Wendy rested her chin on her fist, and narrowed her eyes.

"I suppose there's—" John tried again, but cut himself short.

"You can go and visit Wendy at work," Mrs. Darling offered, placing another plate before them. Wendy served two pancakes to Peter, and then two to herself.

"That's so _boring_," Michael moaned. "All she does is work in a restaurant."

"Excuse me," Wendy said, apparently offended. Peter grinned, though, when he heard the mocking tone in her voice. "The last time you came to the boring restaurant I gave you free chips."

"You work in a restaurant?" Peter asked.

"Just for the summer," Wendy replied. "Mother doesn't let me work during the school year."

"I can't wait until _I _can work," Duke said, seeming to sense Peter's intrigue.

"Me neither," Binks piped up.

"I get to work next year," John declared proudly.

Michael grumbled something about the whole lot of them being mad.

"I'd like to visit you," Peter said.

"Alright," Wendy said uncertainly. "But Michael's right, though—it's not all that much fun. I won't be able to spend much time with you, you know."

"That's alright," Peter said.

Wendy looked at the clock above the stove. "Well, I'll have to leave in about an hour and a half. We still have time to do something before that."

For a strange reason, the picture of the park bench flashed in Peter's mind. "Could we—would you mind if we went to Kensington Garden?" he asked.

A knowing expression flitted across Wendy's face, and Peter thought it was tinted with compassion. But it vanished in the next moment, and she nodded. "Sure. We can do that."

Just then, the sharp crinkle of newspaper sounded, as Mr. Darling folded the paper in half. He glanced around the table, confusion furrowing his brow.

"I say—I do believe I count an extra child here today. Mary!"

"No need to shout, dear," Mrs. Darling said, finally taking her own seat at the table.

"Mary, they keep populating."

"No, dear," Mrs. Darling said. She didn't seem fazed by his outburst.

"If we let this go on much longer, they'll stage a coup."

"I find that unlikely," Mrs. Darling said.

"Just you wait," Mr. Darling warned, standing from the table and tucking his paper beneath his arm. "This is how it starts. You'd never suspect a thing, and _then_!"

The whole lot of them jumped when he banged his fist on the table.

"Soon enough, they're the ones calling the shots, and you and I will be their servants—doing their laundry, cooking their meals, bathing them…."

"We do that now, dear," Mrs. Darling said.

"Good Lord, it's already happened," Mr. Darling said.

Mrs. Darling smiled, and patted the fist that was still on the table. "Have a nice day at work, George."

Mr. Darling, sensing that he was being dismissed, muttered something about this being _his _house, and just you wait until it really happens, and something else (but by that time he was already out of the kitchen).

"Well, shall we eat?" Mrs. Darling asked. And, for the moment, all was well.

* * *

After breakfast, Peter waited in Wendy's bedroom while she changed her clothes. When she emerged from her bathroom, she was wearing black slacks and a white button-down shirt, and was absentmindedly braiding her hair across her shoulder.

"Do you work every day?" Peter asked.

"No, only when I'm scheduled. Usually it's about four days a week, and only during the lunch shifts."

"Do you enjoy it?"

Wendy shrugged. "I like the people. It's interesting to speak with new people every few minutes. Most of them simply want to order and be done with you. But some of them will want to stop and have a conversation. Those are my favorites—the ones that can sum up their entire life story in the five minutes it takes to order a salad, and then know yours by dessert."

"That sounds like fun," Peter said, distracted by the way she combed her fingers through her sandy blond hair. He wondered what that must feel like.

"The thing about it is the pace," Wendy said, opening a drawer and withdrawing a butterfly barrette. "It took me forever to get the hang of the lunch rush. One thing I've learned is that hungry people are an impatient breed. Keep them waiting too long, and they're just about ready to gnaw on the tables and blame you for the splinters."

"Hmm," Peter said, his gaze transfixed as she studied herself in the mirror, clipping the barrette into the base of her braid. He felt it again at that moment—the unmistakable, perplexing draw towards her. The need to be closer. He felt the distance between them like a weight on his shoulders.

She turned to him, and frowned. "Well, you can't go out like that," she said. Peter looked down at himself. He was still wearing his clothes from yesterday. The copper stain on the front of his shirt was barely noticeable against the dark fabric, but he knew it was blood.

"I suppose not," he replied.

"I'll fetch you some clothes. I'm sure Father won't mind if we just borrow something of his."

When she was gone, Peter stood and walked toward the mirror. To his relief, he found that he looked quite the same as he had yesterday. That is, he was still changed to an alarming degree. But he hadn't grown any older-looking overnight, which was a small comfort.

Was Wendy right? Did his aging have anything to do with when he'd been born? For the life of him, he couldn't remember ever having heard of being left in Kensington Garden. He'd always told the boys that he'd run away the night he was born, after having heard his parents talking about what he would be when he was grown. But the truth was he didn't remember any of that.

And if he really _had _been left there, perhaps he didn't want to remember.

He suppressed the anxiety that had bloomed in his chest. Wendy came back into the room, holding out a pile of clothes. The dark-washed blue jeans looked like new, but the olive green tee-shirt on the top was stretched and softened with age.

"I think these should fit," Wendy said. "Father hardly ever wears anything but his suit, so I don't suppose he'll miss anything."

"Thank you," Peter said.

"You can change in the bathroom," she offered, so he did.

When he reemerged, Peter thought he looked odd. He wasn't used to wearing these kinds of clothes. They felt constraining—like he couldn't _move_. Back in Neverland, if he'd worn this outfit, he wouldn't have stood a chance against Hook. These clothes just weren't practical.

Wendy didn't seem to notice anything strange about his appearance. She was sitting at her vanity, pulling objects out of a little white box.

"Come here," Wendy said, moving to the bed with a roll of gauze and tape in her hands. "We'll have to change your bandage before we go."

Peter sat next to her, immediately aware of two things. The first, that she hadn't changed much since he'd last seen her. She was just as motherly and bossy as always. The second, that he was glad of it. Here was his best friend; he wouldn't have had her any other way.

"Lift your shirt," she said, unwinding the gauze from the spool.

He did as she said, lifting the tee-shirt so that it exposed his lower ribs. The gash had stopped bleeding, he could tell, for the bandage was darkened with dried blood. Tenderly, Wendy began to peel the tape from his skin, her fingertips feather-light as they brushed across him.

It seemed to slam into him like a falling boulder. The sensations pulsed through his being, starting in his chest and rippling out to his neck, his wrists, his legs. At first, he froze, terrified that this was the onset of another episode.

But…no. This was different. It wasn't painful. Well, not exactly. The nearest he could remember to ever feeling like this was those few times with Tiger Lily in the past weeks. But what he'd felt then was nothing compared to the surges of adrenaline he was experiencing now. All of a sudden, the back of his tongue felt dry. His lips twitched. He felt his palms slicken, and curled his fingers just in case Wendy accidentally touched them.

And yet the thought of her holding his hand excited him.

Wendy looked at him oddly, and he realized then that her fingers were right over his heart. He summoned his strength to slow his pulse, but to no avail. Was it even possible for one to slow his own heartbeat?

She finished taping on the new bandage, and then gently unrolled his shirt from beneath his arms. "That should do the trick for now. We'll do it again tonight," she said.

Tonight? Peter swallowed. She'd do that again?

"Peter?" she asked.

He glanced up at her. "Yes?"

"Shall we go?"

Getting out of that bedroom suddenly seemed to him a very good idea.


	7. Stories of the Past

"Peter was not quite like other boys;  
but he was afraid at last.  
A tremour ran through him, like a shudder passing over the sea;  
but on the sea one shudder follows another till there are hundreds of them,  
and Peter felt just the one."

~J.M. Barrie

"Don't go too far, John!" Wendy called out, even as the three youngest boys took off running in the direction of Kensington Palace. Michael remained near Wendy's side, walking along with them as they traced the edge of the lake.

"I don't remember the park being this large," Peter commented, glancing about. Everywhere, there were crowds of people gathered in small groups, milling about on the neatly manicured lawns while looking at maps or snapping photos.

"Things must appear smaller from the sky," Wendy pointed out.

"I suppose so," Peter replied.

"Peter," Michael said, "when you leave Neverland, do you ever go anywhere else?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, besides London," Michael said.

"Oh, sure," Peter replied. "Loads of places. I once went to America."

"America!" Michael said, looking suddenly quite fascinated.

Wendy rolled her eyes. "Now you've done it," she muttered.

"What's it like?" Michael asked.

"It's incredible," Peter said, his eyes glowing. "The large cities are quite similar to London, though the buildings are so tall that it's difficult to fly over them. One must fly around them instead, or else risk bumping into the stars. And the people! They are everywhere, all at once, all doing different things. I once walked down the street and passed a man juggling fire on the curb for no reason."

"Wow," Michael breathed.

"There is a bridge made of gold, and the pyramids are so old that one false step can cause them to crumble into bits. And—"

"Pyramids?" Michael asked.

"Of course! America is known for its pyramids," Peter said knowledgeably.

"Those aren't in America," Michael said. "They're in Egypt."

Peter paused. He drew a breath, held it for a moment, and replied, "America has pyramids too. They must have copied Egypt."

Michael narrowed an eye as though to protest, but then shrugged.

"There is nothing that Michael wants more than to live in America one day," Wendy said. "He's already picked out where he wants to attend University, though he still has years to go."

"Brown," Michael said proudly, lifting his chin. Peter tried very hard to look suitably impressed, though he had never heard of such a place.

"He's been stubborn on this subject for years. A brochure was sent to him in the post, probably by mistake, but he's had this plan in his head ever since," Wendy explained.

Michael frowned. "Better my way than yours," he grumbled.

Wendy's face fell. Peter looked between the two of them, noting that the air had suddenly taken on a chill.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

Michael cleared his throat, focusing now on his shoes. "Nothing," he said.

"Go find John, Michael," Wendy said. "Make sure he hasn't wandered to the bottom of the lake."

Michael kicked a pebble, but then turned around and began walking in the direction they'd come from. Wendy crossed her arms, looking straight ahead.

"What was he talking about?" Peter asked.

She shook her head. "Michael has a particular idea about what people should do with their lives. Anything different, he disapproves."

"He disapproves of you?" Peter asked, wondering how such a thing could be possible. Wendy had always been the example. The concept that she might do something worth disapproval was foreign to him.

Wendy looked at her watch, then smirked sidelong at Peter. "Come on," she said, reaching out and grabbing his hand. Peter only had the briefest of moments to realize that she was changing the subject before his heartbeat kicked up at the touch of her skin, and the gleam in her eye captured his attention. "We don't have much time. Let's get away from all these tourists."

"And go where?" Peter asked, though he was perfectly willing to follow her anywhere.

"I know a place," she said, looking as mischievous as a fairy. Without warning, she tugged at his hand, and led him on a sprint down a pathway of trees.

Peter was entranced by the images of the park as they flitted by him. The tunnel of trees cast a vibrant green glow overhead as the branches jutted out across one another, strewn with lush summer leaves. The lake rippled with the breeze, reflecting the soft cream clouds overhead. As they ran, the noise of the crowds became distant, and finally it disappeared altogether. When at last they stopped, puffing with breathlessness, Peter heard nothing but a lark in some nearby bush. Wendy stood, her fingers still entwined in his, looking out across the water as her chest rose and fell in rhythm with his. In that moment, he was struck with a total, nearly overwhelming sense of peace. Just for a second, it was as though time stood still, and he was in exactly the right place.

What was even stranger: he enjoyed this feeling. He didn't mind the lack of excitement. In fact, he found himself wishing that he could stay in this place, in this position, for a very long time. It wasn't an adventure, not like he was used to. But, for some reason, he suspected that it might be better.

He'd never felt satisfied before unless he was chasing some new excitement, eternally bored unless he was embroiled in battle. But there was something in the familiarity of Wendy, something about the way she looked at him—as though she knew all of his secrets. She was the loveliest creature in either of their worlds.

She flushed, feeling his gaze, though the corner of her mouth tugged upward in a shy grin. With a backward tilt of her head, she turned and drew him toward a bench behind them.

"This is where the man found you…er, the baby," she corrected herself. "I checked the picture against all the benches in the area after I first read it. This is the one."

"It may not have been me," Peter pointed out, just for clarity's sake.

"I know," she said, too quickly.

Peter drew a deep breath, then circled the bench. With each step, he took in the features of the wood, the iron casting on the sides, the gaps between the planks, as though searching for clues. When he'd reached the front again, he sat down, warily, testing for solidity. "You think they left me here?" he asked Wendy, glancing up at her now.

Wendy hesitated, then sat down next to him. "I don't know," she admitted. She seemed to know, without being told, that he was referring to his parents. Furthermore, she must have sensed that the very thought that anyone would abandon him would be unfathomable to Peter. He wasn't used to relying on anyone for acceptance; people had always looked to him for approval. The notion that he, too, was susceptible to rejection…something close to nausea rolled through his stomach.

"I've never thought of myself as having parents before," he mused, more thoughtful than sad. "I always thought I'd simply run away. The lost boys, they'd talk about their parents all the time. Even if they'd never really known them. I never saw much use for those conversations."

"Because they'd been abandoned?" Wendy asked.

"Because what was the use?" Peter countered. "What was the use of missing them? We were fine by ourselves—better, really. Parents give you rules and lessons and limits. Why should we want those when we have the whole world to explore, all on our own, without anyone telling us what to do with it?"

Wendy was silent. Then, quietly, she asked, "So is that why you always assumed you'd run away?"

"I didn't assume it. Tink told me," Peter said.

Wendy's eyes snapped wider. "What?" she asked, that one word brimming with accusation. "You never told me that. I thought it was _your _story."

"It is. Tinkerbell was just the one who reminded me about it," Peter said.

"No…Peter, if you were a baby, there's no way you could have remembered the night you were born. I always thought you'd made the story up."

"I don't make things up!" Peter said, his brows furrowing.

Wendy rolled her eyes. "Yes you do. But it's only because you like to tell stories, so there's no harm to it."

"I _don't_!" he insisted, feeling like a child being admonished. The feeling didn't sit well with him.

"Peter, there are no pyramids in America. You've never been," Wendy said, sounding much too matter-of-fact for Peter's liking.

"How would you know?" he asked.

"And what about yesterday?" she continued, ignoring the jibe. "You told the boys that story about your battle with Hook. It was complete bullocks."

"If I remember correctly, aren't you the one in the habit of telling stories?" Peter spat.

"Sure, _nursery _stories," she said. "I tell them to the boys to help them go to sleep. You tell them because you've never been interested in reality."

"What do you mean?" he asked. He felt as though he were losing his footing in this conversation. All of a sudden, the fact that Wendy knew him so well seemed a very frustrating fact, indeed.

"It's true," she said. "Isn't it? It's the reason you hide away in that world of yours, untouched by time or rules or anything that could possibly be disappointing. It's why you tell such tall tales, because you would rather the endings to your stories be up to you, rather than up to fate."

Peter drew a breath to speak, but shook his head. He didn't know if she was right—it was like she was holding a mirror up to something that was vaguely familiar, but that he'd never seen before.

"What does this have to do with the story about my running away?" he asked, trying to change the subject. "I didn't make it up—it's the truth. Tinkerbelle knows it, too."

"I don't know if she _knows _it, or if she made it up," Wendy said.

"What, she's a liar, too?" Peter asked acidly. He heard the sour sound in his voice, this new voice that was still so foreign to him. His words carried more weight now that they were carried by this low timbre.

"I never called you a liar," Wendy said gently. He heard something akin to apology in her tone. "I'm suggesting that Tinkerbelle found you here, and tried to protect you."

"Protect me?" he asked.

"I don't know, but if I had to guess—I'd say she took you away to Neverland, then told you that you'd run away. She was trying to spare your feelings."

Peter frowned. "Tink wouldn't do that. She's too impulsive. Fairies aren't very bright you know. They can only keep one thought in their heads at a time. The truth would have slipped out in the years that we've known each other."

"Tinkerbelle loves you, Peter. If you want my opinion, I think she'd do just about anything if it meant sparing you from harm."

Peter glanced at the girl beside him. He didn't know why she elicited such strong emotions from him. He'd never gone from awe to anger to appreciation so quickly before, especially not in the course of one conversation. So why with her?

He swallowed, and watched as she played with the silver ring on her finger, gazing at the grass. Even when he was angry with her, he couldn't help but find her beautiful. And that was when he understood what she meant. There was very little he wouldn't do if it meant sparing Wendy.

She glanced at her watch, then rose to her feet. "We should go and find the boys. We'll have to leave soon."

"Wendy," he said softly, his eyes still locked onto her face. She turned and looked down at him.

"Yes?"

A hundred words welled up inside him, each more vital and imperative than the last, and he could have said them all to her at this very moment. There was no one around. But as he tried to choose which to say first, all he could think to ask was, "Do you really think it was me?"

She paused, then moistened her lips. "Truthfully?"

He nodded.

"All I think is that anyone would have to be crazy to have given you up, Peter," she said. "Nothing short of gravity could have kept me away all these years."

He grinned a little sadly, and stood when she extended her hand towards him. They strolled through the peaceful place in silence, contemplating all that had been shared. As they went, they passed a strange statue of a little boy blowing his trumpet, and Peter sensed that there was, in fact, something familiar about this place.


	8. As Nothing Will Stand Still

"It would be an easy map if that were all, but there is also first day at school, religion, fathers, the round pond, needle-work, murders, hangings, verbs that take the dative, chocolate-pudding day, getting into braces, say ninety-nine threepence for pulling out your tooth yourself, and so on, and either these are part of the island or they are another map showing through, and it is all rather confusing, especially as nothing will stand still."

~J.M. Barrie

The boring restaurant, as Michael had taken to calling the place, was a smoky hole-in-the wall that Peter may not have even known was there, had Wendy not dodged into an alleyway and disappeared through an unobtrusive grey door carved into one of the brick walls, leading the trail of boys behind her.

The Duchess appeared to be a sort of tavern, from what Peter could make out. As they ducked into the restaurant, the first thing he noticed was the large, wooden bar decorated with all sorts of colorful bottles and taps. A couple of lone men sat at opposite sides of the bar, one staring at the bottom of his glass mug as though he were reading through it, the other chatting with the bar tender over his Guinness. Neither man had a cigarette, but for some reason, smoke hung on the air like a fog, seeping out from beneath the tables and crawling across the ground in a swirling, living carpet. The tables across the floor were empty, each one furnished with mismatched bar stools and laminated menus.

"C'mon," Michael said, nodding his head sideways as he glanced at Peter. Peter looked around, and saw that Wendy had evaporated. "We always sit by the window."

The window, as Michael called it, was a slight square of glass buried deep inside the wooden wall, portraying the occasional passing figure of someone walking through the alley beyond. Peter didn't think he'd ever seen such a dimly lit place in his life.

Binks was studying one of the pages of the menu. His forehead was scrunched into folds, his lips silently tracing the words as he sounded out the various items.

"He just learned how to read," John said, catching Peter looking at the young boy. "He's already got it down quite well."

Peter looked at Duke, who was sitting next to his brother but looking out the window with a bored expression on his face. "And Duke?" Peter asked John.

John smirked. "Duke doesn't bother. Binks just tells him what everything says anyways."

"They have a whole system going," Michael added, taking his place next to Peter on a slightly taller stool. "Binks still doesn't know how to tie his shoes. Duke does it for him. And Duke refuses to learn how to cut his own food."

"They never wash their own hair in the bath, only the other's," John added.

"Duke only knows the digits of our home address; Binks only knows the street," Michael said.

"Binks only knows the path to school. But Duke only knows the way back home," John said.

"Oddly, they each only know every other digit of our telephone number. Watching the pair of them recite it is like viewing a tennis match," Michael mused.

"You're joking," Peter said, not sure whether he should find the news less funny and more appalling.

"It's brilliant, really," Michael said. "Together, they know just as much as they should, but each only had to learn half as much."

"The two of them make one complete person," John laughed.

"John!" Wendy scolded, appearing now beside the table with a tray in her hands. "I've told you not to say that about them. What will they learn to think of themselves if that's how you talk about them?"

John muttered something about it only having been a joke, but ducked his head all the same. Wendy took the glasses of soda off of her tray and placed them in front of each of the boys. Peter noticed that she'd put on a n apron and a nametag in the time she'd been away. Looking more closely, he saw that the tag read, "_Welcome to The Duchess! Please meet WINDY_."

He raised an eyebrow. "Windy?" he asked.

She looked down, and rolled her eyes. "Two months, and they still haven't gotten me a new one," she said. But he caught the grin that appeared as she said it, and wondered briefly what it was about.

"Can I have shepherd's pie?" Binks asked. "Duke wants it too."

"I want the fettuccini," Michael said.

"And I want the lamb stew," John said.

"That'll be four orders of chips, then?" Wendy asked, writing it down on her notepad. A groan sounded from the boys, and Wendy laughed as she turned to walk away.

"What was that about?" Peter asked.

"She knows we haven't got any money," Michael explained. "She is only allowed to give us free chips, not real food."

"Unless we come when they're about to close," John said. "Then she gives us whatever is going to go to waste."

Peter barely heard the boys, though. He watched as Wendy walked away, through a swinging door into what he assumed to be the kitchen. He was having trouble wrapping his mind around this latest development; she seemed far too grand a creature to be working in a place like this. The Wendy he'd kept in his mind for so long was beginning to separate from the Wendy before him. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"John boy!"

All the boys turned, and Peter saw that the bartender, having turned his back on the man with the Guinness, was walking toward their table. He wasn't as old as Peter had originally thought him to be. Though he was still old by Neverland standards, what with the stubbly beard poking out from the skin on his chin, he didn't look much older than…well, than Peter did as of late.

"Luke!" John said, his face breaking into a grin.

"I didn't know the whole gang was coming in today," the bartender, Luke, said. Peter sized him up as he came to stand beside the table. He was tall, taller than Wendy for sure. He had dark brown hair that was nearly as black as Hook's, which sat in short, unkempt wavy locks atop his head. His beard was really more of a five o'clock shadow, though it was only eleven in the morning, and it gave him an air of being permanently disheveled. His eyes were as dark as his hair, and they immediately settled on Peter.

"I see your sister has picked up another stray," he said, smiling though his eyes narrowed in puzzlement.

"This is Peter," John said. "He and Wendy have known each other since…_oomph_."

Peter caught a glimpse of Michael's foot moving under the table.

"Since forever," Michael finished. "Peter's from out of town. He just got in last night."

"Peter," Luke said, extending a hand. "Now that you mention it, I have heard Wendy say your name a few times over the years. The way she talked about you, I'd always imagined you were a character from one of her stories."

Peter shook his hand, unable to help feeling a little suspicious. "She's never mentioned you," Peter said.

Michael coughed. John giggled. Binks and Duke didn't seem to be paying attention, apparently too busy fishing ice cubes from their glasses with their forks.

Luke paused, regarding Peter with a cool expression, his smile never faltering. "Well from what I hear, you two haven't spoken in a while. It's no surprise you don't know much about her anymore."

Perhaps the comment would have stung less had Peter not just been thinking nearly the same exact thing.

Just then, Wendy reappeared through the swinging door, her tray loaded with paper canoes of chips. She froze for half a moment when she saw Luke at the table, her face paling for the slightest of instants, before she pasted on a grin and walked the rest of the distance at half-speed.

"Here you go, boys," she said, the cheer in her voice pitched just a touch too high. "I see you've met Luke."

"Windy," Luke said, his voice warmer now. "I was just telling your friend that I hardly supposed he was real," he laughed. Wendy chuckled, too, though she looked at Peter as she did so. He couldn't bring himself to smile. Something was going on, and he wasn't sure what it was. Why did Wendy seem so nervous?

"Windy?" Peter asked again, wondering why she didn't seem surprised that Luke would call her that.

"'S just a nickname," Wendy mumbled, looking down.

"Oh, she didn't tell you? It's a great story," Luke said. "The first day she came in here to ask after a job, a tornado was blowing through London."

"It was hardly a tornado," Wendy said. "It was just a spring storm."

"I was manning the bar, and I look up to see this poor girl looking completely frazzled, her hair bunched up and matted down in odd places, her face bright red with wind burn. She has all these papers in her arms. Newspapers, you see. She'd circled the various job listings. Anyways, I ask her to have a seat, thinking she's a customer, but she asks to see the manager. Rudy was in the back—"

"Rudy is the owner," Wendy cut in to explain, her smile growing more genuine now.

"—doing the books, as usual, so I told her to have a seat while I went to get him. But when I came back out, there she was, standing in the exact same position—"

"It was my first time asking for a job!" Wendy said, her words full of playful indignation. "I didn't want to be caught sitting down. I was nervous."

"And there she stood for the next ten minutes while Rudy kept her waiting, stock-still like a statue. I'd never seen anyone so still in my life. When Rudy finally came out, she seemed to relax for a moment—"

"Please, stop," Wendy said, hiding her face behind her hands now, though she seemed amused.

"—until a customer opened the door, hurrying in out of the wind, and the gust that blew in behind him tore all of the clippings from her arms and scattered them all over the bar floor."

Everyone laughed, including the boys. Peter forced a small grin.

"We spent the next ten minutes picking them all up, before she even sat down for her interview."

"It was the most humiliating experience I've ever had," Wendy said, rolling her eyes. "Here I was, trying to appear professional and put-together, and then I caused that kind of commotion. What was worse, Rudy helped pick the clippings up, and kept commenting on the other restaurants I had circled in the paper. He kept telling me which ones I should or shouldn't apply to."

"That's not even the best part," Luke said, his eyes twinkling. "She was wearing this skirt. So after Rudy hired her, she seemed to relax again…until she opened the door to leave and—"

"That's enough of that story," Wendy said, circling the table to take the forks away from Binks and Duke. They gave her a sour expression, but the moment she walked away they returned to plucking ice cubes out of their glasses with their fingers.

Peter felt a stirring of something close to anger inside his belly. His face felt flushed, and for some reason his hands kept curling into fists. Without realizing what he was doing, he stood straight up from his barstool, only to find out that Luke was half a head taller than he was. They were nearly nose-to-nose now, and Luke looked down at him with a strange mix of amusement and pity.

"Peter?" Wendy asked. Her eyes were a bit larger now, as though she were afraid of what he would do next.

Peter swallowed. If this were Neverland, he wouldn't have hesitated. He could have hit the man before him as many times as he liked, never blinking an eye. But he knew that if he acted out now, Wendy would be upset with him. Besides, things weren't so black-and-white here. This bartender hadn't really done anything _wrong_…

"Restroom," Peter muttered, and Wendy let loose a breath she'd been holding.

"Second door on the right, down the hall over there," she said, pointing to the back of the restaurant. Peter nodded and walked away, willing his fists to unclench the entire time.


	9. To Go, To Fade Away

"Never say good-bye because saying good-bye means going away and going away means forgetting."

~J.M. Barrie

Peter looked at himself in the water-stained glass of the bathroom mirror, gripping the edges of the countertop and wondering what he was doing here. He didn't even recognize himself, much less Wendy. The man in the mirror before him wasn't _him_; he suddenly felt a rush of anxiety, and his chest tightened around his lungs.

He shouldn't have come back here. That much was clear. He should never have left Neverland again. At least if he had stayed there, he could have kept up the appearance that everything was as it had always been. Being here…it had never been clearer that far too much had changed. Wendy had changed.

The thought was too dark to sit with for very long. Wendy had always been his constant, that distant star unyielding in its perfection. Who was she, if not the girl he remembered? What sort of place was this world if it had taken something that precious and molded it into something different?

It was a place he couldn't stay in for long. He had to get out. He looked at himself in the mirror one final time, and saw that his eyes were a bit crazed. He felt trapped here. He felt like a stranger to himself. He had to go back.

Peter walked out of the bathroom and marched straight for the door.

"Peter?" Michael asked.

"Peter!" Wendy called, coming out of the kitchen just as he was opening the door. He didn't pause, didn't look back. There was no point in facing her. He never wanted to see her again. He wanted to forget that he'd ever found her.

It wasn't long before the sounds of several pairs of feet running after him began to echo from behind. "Peter, wait!" John said, but he didn't. He kept looking straight ahead, not knowing where he was going. Back to Kensington Gardens? No. His fairy dust was at the house still. If he was going to return to Neverland, he'd need it.

"Peter, slow down!" Binks called.

His side barely hurt anymore. His injury must not have been as bad as he'd first thought. He could get back to Neverland without it causing him much trouble, he felt certain. And then Tink would help him get well. Hook would have searched the island by now and come up empty; surely there would be a few days before the old pirate would look for him there again. He could be fully healed by then, and ready to get back to the way things should be.

"Peter, stop!"

It was Michael this time, and he'd rounded Peter until he was firmly rooted in his path. Peter stopped short, surprised to find the boy there. He'd barely been listening to their protests, too lost in thought.

Michael was panting, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort it had taken to chase Peter down. Peter looked behind him, and saw that the other boys were still sprinting toward him. Once they'd caught up, Duke was the first to speak.

"Where are you going?" Duke asked, his words separated by huffs of breath.

"Home," Peter said, circling Michael and beginning to walk again.

"To the house?" Duke asked.

"No. My home. Neverland," Peter said, not wishing to explain. They couldn't understand the way he was feeling now—lost, furious, and more than a little disappointed. He barely understood it himself.

"Oh!" Binks said, clapping his hands. "Let us come with you!"

"Yes, take us, too, Peter!" John said, skipping gleefully beside him. "We could take on the Indians again!"

"Can we fly?" Binks asked.

"No, you don't understand," Peter protested. "I'm going to Neverland. I'm not coming back this time."

The boys fell quiet, and for several moments all that could be heard was the patter of footsteps along the pavement.

"But, why?" John asked. "You just got here."

"Did we do something?" Duke asked.

"Are you bored?" Binks asked.

"No," Peter said, shaking his head. "I just have to go."

"Wait," Michael said, grabbing Peter's elbow and dragging him to a stop. Peter turned, surprised. Michael paused, then said, "John, you and the boys go on home. We'll be along in a minute."

"But—"

"Go," Michael said. John narrowed his eyes through his glasses, but took Binks's and Duke's hands and continued walking along the sidewalk.

"Get out of my way, Michael," Peter growled, in no mood for games. None of the lost boys would ever have stood in his path.

"No," Michael said. "You need to listen to me."

Peter might have simply sidestepped again and continued on his way, had he not seen the determination in Michael's eyes. Whatever he had to say, it was important to him. And because this was Wendy's brother, he forced himself to stand still.

"What is it?" Peter asked, none too happy.

"Peter, I normally wouldn't say anything," Michael said. "But if you're going to pull this trick again, I have to tell you this. Last time, after you left…Wendy wasn't well. She cried every night that you didn't return, thinking it was somehow her fault. Even though she knew that she had to be at home, she knew that you must have been angry with her for leaving you, and so she…. Well, she was very unhappy for a while."

Peter felt the blood drain from his face at the image of Wendy crying herself to sleep. He pictured the lovely little girl that he'd known, upset because of something he'd done, and suddenly he didn't think he could move even if he'd tried to.

"And if you leave now," Michael continued, "well, I don't know that she'd ever forgive you for it. She may have forgiven you for leaving last time, but don't think she'll do it again. If you leave now, don't bother coming back."

Peter frowned. "What makes you think I'll want her forgiveness?" he asked, feeling as though Michael were challenging him somehow.

"Because you love her," Michael said bluntly. Peter felt his eyes widen. "She's your best friend, of course you love her. Why else would you have come back here, of all the places in the world, when you needed some place to stay? I've seen the way you two talk to each other—it's like you never left."

Peter was about to protest, when he realized that he didn't have the words to deny it. "Does she…does she think about Luke, the way I think about her?" he asked, not quite sure how to phrase what he really wanted to say.

Michael paused, then sighed. "She and Luke are friends," he said slowly. "But they're not dating, if that's what you mean."

"Dating…." Peter tested the word. "What's that?"

Michael blinked. Without missing a beat, he burst out laughing, though he stopped when he caught sight of Peter's bemused expression. "You know, dating," Michael said, collecting himself. "It's when a man and a woman…well, they keep each other company. They do things together, like go to see movies, or eat at restaurants."

Peter frowned. "They work at a restaurant together," he pointed out.

"Yes, but it's more than that. Dating is when two people…well, they sort of love each other, I guess. In a romantic way. They…oh, bullocks, I dunno. They kiss each other, and things." Michael's cheeks had grown red, and he kicked at the pebbles on the sidewalk. Peter cocked his head.

"Wendy gave me a kiss once," he said, feeling hope blossom in his chest.

"She what?" Michael asked, seeming surprised. Then he smirked. "Oh, yes, the thimble. She told me about that. That's not—" Michael shook his head, appearing tired of explaining things. "Anyways, my point is they are friends, but they're not in love, if that's what you're worried about."

"They seemed…close," Peter said.

Michael nodded. "To be honest, Mother has always wondered if Wendy and Luke would ever become more than friends. I think everyone has wondered at some point or another."

The sick feeling returned to Peter's stomach.

"But Wendy doesn't date," Michael said.

"Oh?" Peter asked, grinning in spite of himself.

Michael shrugged one shoulder.

"But that's good, isn't it?" Peter asked, wondering why he seemed so somber.

He shook his head. "I think it makes her sad sometimes. Her friends from school have all been on dates, and had boyfriends, and have done all the things that girls her age ought to do. But Wendy doesn't do any of that. I think she's avoided it."

"Why?" Peter whispered, though he already knew the answer.

Michael met his eyes. "Because a part of her has always been hung up on you, I think. She's just always been waiting for you to come back. She hasn't really paid much attention to anyone else."

"And that makes her sad?" Peter asked. He wasn't used to this…whatever this was. Having so many different sensations at once was exhausting.

"Sometimes."

Something clicked in Peter's mind. "That's why you want me to stay, isn't it?" he asked. "You want her to stop waiting for me?"

"We've all missed you, Peter," Michael said, his voice reassuring. "But Wendy especially. I think she's built you up in her memory to be this perfect person. Don't misunderstand me—everyone thinks that you're wonderful. The boys and I were thrilled to see you again. But remembering you the way you were has kept Wendy from doing a lot of things. I think if she gets to know you again, and realizes that you're just a person, just human like the rest of us, she'll be able to let you go. And she's been holding on to you for far too long."

Peter tasted something sour in the back of his mouth. "I never said I was perfect," he spat. He didn't know if he was mad at Michael for saying these things, or if he was mad because he knew that the boy was making some sense. Hadn't he just been thinking that Wendy was far more perfect in his memory than she was now? It couldn't be fair to assume that she hadn't been thinking the same of him.

"Look, if you want to go back to Neverland, that's fine," Michael rushed on, eager now to make amends. "I think we all know that you'll have to go back eventually. But for now, just stay a little while longer. For Wendy."

Peter paused. After a long minute had passed, he muttered, "Just so you know, I've missed her, too."

Michael seemed to relax. His shoulders fell, and he patted Peter on the arm. The two boys turned, and continued to walk along the sidewalk side by side. They'd come to a silent agreement, the kind that young boys make in an instant without having to really think about it.

So for now, Peter would stay. He and Wendy would get to know each other again. And when they both realized that they were no longer the person that the other remembered, and when this need to have that perfect person back vanished in the light of this realization, he would be able to leave again. They wouldn't have to miss each other anymore. They would be able to get back to their lives, the way that they were always supposed to live them. And then, finally, maybe this ache would fade.


	10. The Boy Who Could Fly

"For to have faith is to have wings."

~J.M. Barrie

Peter heard a gasp behind him. "Oh, Peter," Wendy said, standing in the doorway of her bedroom. "I didn't realize that you were in here."

He stood at her window, the glass lifted to let in the evening breeze, and looked at the night sky. He turned and grinned at her, feeling the lingering effects of melancholy. "I was just remembering," he says, leaning to sit against the ledge. "What it used to be like."

Wendy frowned. "Is everything alright?"

Peter nodded. "You know, this is where I first saw you," he said, tipping his head toward the window and turning toward it once more. "Right here, on this ledge. You were reading to your brothers. Some story about a girl in a ball gown."

"_Cinderella_," Wendy said, smirking. "It was one of my favorites."

Peter felt that one word tug at his heart. "Was," he repeated softly.

"Hmm?" she asked, rounding the bed.

Of course, it wouldn't be her favorite anymore. She'd outgrown it.

"Do you still read to them?" he asked.

"Sometimes," she said, sitting on the bed and lifting her hair into a pony tail. "Oh, not to John and Michael, of course. They're too grown up now. But occasionally Binks and Duke will want to hear one, and then I'll go sit with them for a while."

Peter turned, and watched her play with her hair, instantly feeling that familiar pull towards her in spite of himself.

"You're different," he whispered. He didn't say this because he wanted to hurt her feelings, though it occurred to him later that he may have inadvertently done so; rather, he said it because he felt that he could say anything to her. Furthermore, he felt like he _needed _to tell someone, for the words had been sitting on his shoulders all day, and he needed help to lighten their load. And he knew that he could tell Wendy anything.

She paused, her posture seeming to slump a bit. "I know," she said. After another moment, she asked, "Is that why you walked out earlier today?"

She hadn't gotten home until supper time, and even then they hadn't talked much. Peter had remained quiet, unsure of what to say now that he knew what he needed to do. It was difficult to face her now, knowing that she wasn't the same person she used to be. Moreover he felt a little guilty, having this plan to leave her again without her knowing anything about it.

"It just finally hit me," he said. "You chose to grow up."

"You knew that," she said. "You knew that I'd grow up as soon as I left Neverland."

"But I never…." He couldn't find the words. She nodded, though, seeming to know what he wanted to say without him having to say a word.

"You never imagined that I actually would," she finished for him.

He was silent.

"I'll admit, it was a shock when I first saw you, looking the way you look now," she confessed. "Maybe it's not fair, but a part of me wanted you to stay the way that you used to be forever."

"Exactly," he said. Far from being offended, he felt that she understood him completely.

She drew a short breath, and held it for a minute. "Peter," she finally said, "growing up isn't a bad thing, you know. People change, usually for the better. It's the people who get stuck in the past that usually have trouble."

"Maybe in your world," he mumbled.

"Everywhere," she asserted. "Look at Hook. Before you arrived in Neverland, he owned the island and the seas, and everyone knew him as the most powerful man around. Then you showed up. He hasn't been able to move on from what he used to be, and so he wastes his days fighting with you. And for what? Even if he were to beat you, it wouldn't matter. It doesn't change who he is."

Peter had the uneasy feeling that she wasn't talking about Hook. "You think people in Neverland waste their time?"

"No," she said slowly. "I think you spend so much time chasing after the next big adventure, repeating the same fights over and over again, so that you don't have to worry about doing something new. But Peter, it's often the new things that are the most exciting."

"But you just said it yourself—you wish I'd stayed the same."

"Yes," she murmured. "That's because I had such a lovely time all those years ago. I wanted to remember you that way forever."

"And now you're disappointed?" he asked, feeling his chest contract. A surge of pain shot through his cheeks, to the back of his eyes, and he wondered for a moment if it were possible for one's heart to actually stop beating.

She looked up at him, and they stood in silence for a long moment. "I don't know," she admitted finally. "It's just different."

He nodded. The space seemed to small once again. Rising from where he sat on the ledge, he walked over to sit next to her on the bed.

"When I saw you with Luke today," he said, sinking onto the mattress beside her, "I felt like I didn't recognize you. In my mind, you've always been mine. And then when you were with him, it was like you were someone else entirely. Someone _else's_."

Wendy appeared startled. "There's nothing going on between—"

"I know," he said, cutting her off. "And really, from what Michael told me, I don't think I have much room to comment one way or the other."

"Michael said something?" Wendy asked.

"My point is, it's not your fault that you've moved on with your life. In fact, it's not even a bad thing, really. I just don't think that I have any place in it anymore."

This was it. If they could have this conversation now, realize that they were too different from the people that they'd once been, then he could leave tonight. He wouldn't have to stay any longer, confronted by the image of a woman who had moved on with her life, who had left him behind. He could go back to Neverland and start trying to forget….

But as he turned to look at her, he caught himself mid-thought. Now that he was closer, that pull between them had multiplied. It connected them with iron cables, and he found himself getting lost in the blue of her eyes again. She must have sensed his bafflement, for her mouth opened in surprise, her eyes widened in…what? Fear? Hope?

"Peter," she whispered, and the gap separating them grew smaller yet. Despite everything he'd once said, despite everything he was _going _to say, in that moment, he caught a glimpse of his Wendy, the one so familiar to him still. No matter what Michael might have convinced him of just an hour ago, there was a part of this girl that _was _perfect…for him.

"Why do I feel this way?" he asked softly.

"What way?" Her gaze settled lower on his face.

"Like I'm lost when I'm with you, and lost if I leave you."

She grinned, and closed the distance between them by resting her forehead against his. "Because," she said. "You're one of the lost boys."

A surprised chuckle rose from his lips. He closed his eyes and inhaled her, fresh linen and lilac.

"Michael said that we need to get to know each other again," Peter murmured.

She snorted. "I'm going to have to have a talk with that brother of mine. He should mind his own business."

They sat for a while in that position, concentrating on each other's breathing, closer perhaps than they'd ever been. Peter felt her skin against his forehead, and realized that this sensation was new. He'd never felt her skin before…not like this. Not with the reaction that he was having now, wondering what the rest of her face felt like. Wondering if everything about her was this soft. The idea caused his heartbeat to race; it was such a foreign notion, such an unexpected curiosity. It was different—but not in a bad way.

"I like you like this," he whispered.

"Like what?"

"Just…you."

Wendy paused, then drew a breath. She pulled back and gazed at him. She opened her mouth a few times as if to speak, then closed it again.

Finally, she said, "It's strange."

"What is?"

"I feel different when I'm around you," she confessed. "I feel like I'm still that little girl that I used to be—the one who still believed in fairies and magic and all of it. Even knowing those things exist…it's hard to remember them sometimes. To believe in the wonder of it all. When you're an adult, other things just get in the way of it all. I don't think that growing up is everything I expected it to be."

"What did you expect?" Peter asked. For him, growing up had always seemed an awful concept. He wasn't surprised by her disenchantment.

Wendy shook her head. "I don't know. I thought it might be more fun, I guess. My mother always made it look so glamorous. The parties, the chores, the children. I had this picture in my head of what I wanted, and I don't have any of it."

"You wanted to go to parties?" Peter asked, smirking.

She rolled her eyes and nudged his shoulder. "No," she said. "Well, yes, but that's not all of it. I…I just wanted to tell stories, and take care of people, and have the kind of life I always imagined that she has."

"So you didn't picture yourself becoming a waitress?"

She laughed, and Peter felt himself glow. "It's only a temporary job, Peter," she said. "And I actually quite enjoy it. But no, that's not what I want to do with the rest of my life."

"You want to tell stories," he said, basking in the realization that _his _Wendy was still here.

She hesitated, then nodded. Peter saw something in her eyes. A question, perhaps, lingering just below the surface.

"Can I show you something?" she asked.

"Of course," he said automatically.

Apparently having reached a decision, she drew a deep breath and stood up. Stooping down, she fished under her bed for a moment, before rising again and sitting on the bed. In her arms was a package, not much bigger than a shoe box, with a picture of the Eiffel Tower on the top. It was old, from the look of the thing, the edges tattered and worn.

She traced the outline of the tower with her finger, deliberating for a moment, then opened the lid. Inside, Peter saw pages upon pages of handwritten notes. They were nestled, one atop the other, as though time had caused them to melt into each other.

"What are these?" he asked.

"They're my stories," she said. She took a page out of the box, then began fishing deeper, toward the bottom. "I began writing them ages ago, right around the time you first left. At first, it was because I didn't want to forget you…or what we saw. So I wrote it down. But I couldn't remember everything clearly, so I started making things up. After a while, I began writing about what I wished would happen. You would come back, and we would explore London together, then I'd go back to Neverland with you. I wrote down all the adventures we would have, and while I was writing it was like you were here with me again."

Peter was taken aback. All day, it had been as though Wendy had moved on, having completely forgotten about him. But she'd been thinking about him all along.

"Will you read them?" she asked, her voice gentle and uncertain.

He didn't reply for a moment, too consumed by shock to process her request. There were hundreds of pages in the box. She had missed him almost as much as he had missed her. And suddenly, the heart which had felt on the verge of breaking just moments ago began to soar.

"Peter?" she whispered.

"Of course," he said, feeling lighter than air. It was like he was himself again in that moment, the little boy who stood atop the Big Ben and crowed with glee. "I'd love to read about our adventures."

She grinned, and withdrew a couple of yellowed pages from the bottom of the box. Carefully, she handed them to him. "This was the first one I wrote," she said.

He couldn't even look at it. He was too distracted by her, by the way she spoke, the way she moved. By the way she'd thought about him, too.

A subtle knock sounded at the door. "Peter, darling," Mrs. Darling said, opening the door slightly. "I've got the couch made up for you. Downstairs."

"Thank you, Mother," Wendy said. She grinned at him. "Take it with you," she whispered.

He nodded, then walked downstairs, feeling as though he were in a fog. Once he'd settled in for the night, he picked up the pages again and began reading. It was called, "The Boy Who Could Fly."


	11. A Note to Readers

Dear Readers,

Thank you for all your requests for a new chapter. I thought I would write a brief explanation as to why I have not published in a while. Currently, I am working on another project, and it is taking up a good bit of my time. Once I have finished, I intend on returning to finish out Peter and Wendy's adventure, so please keep checking back. I know they have more to say.

Until then, just always be waiting for me.

Sincerely,

CurrerJaneBell


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